


Waking Ghosts

by shirozora



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, The Mummy (1999)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, I am so weak and have absolutely no regrets, M/M, Multi, Revised Version, every fandom needs a Mummy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 44,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5121299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirozora/pseuds/shirozora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Pavus, formerly of Qarinus, is an archivist at the Magisterium research outpost in Hightown and in need of an academic discovery to give the Magisterium reason to continue funding his life away from Tevinter. When his best friend Felix comes visiting with an old Warden map and a strange orb confiscated from a vagrant, he thinks he might've found the key to answering questions left in the scattered research pages of the mysterious Band of Three. But there's a reason why the Band of Three never finished their mission and a reason why a Tevinter cult is seeking those same answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm terrible and terribly weak for AUs, especially Mummy AUs. Fandoms have a terrible lack of Mummy AUs, which is a travesty because the movie's a fucking joy. And since the movie is part of Universal Picture's famous collection (universe?) of horror/monster flicks, I figured I might as well start posting the fic on Halloween. ~~Which I'm doing at the last minute because I decided to take two hours to edit Part I.~~ Which apparently didn't happen because time zones and whatnot. Happy NaNoWriMo!
> 
> So. Yeah. Mummy AU. And Dragon Age. Best most terrible AU thing I've written since the Tron/Marvel barista AU.
> 
>  
> 
> Trevelyan is the same Trevelyan from my other DA fic _heartlines_ , because he's my precious darling Asian Inquisitor.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Update 8/8/2016:** The story has been revised in its entirety and reposted.

“ _Kaffas._ ”

A slip of paper flutters down onto Dorian’s head. He plucks it off, glowers at his scrawl - _request avvar sagas from kinloch_ \- and burns it to a crisp. The door behind him creaks open while he considers doing something similar to the rest of the archive.

“I hope your intention is to clean this mess rather than set it on fire,” Maevaris says. “The Magisterium needs to see _some_ results before approving another year’s worth of funding-”

“I know, I know,” Dorian replies, scrubbing at his head while surveying the chaos. Scrolls and books litter the floor, bookcases sag against each other, and a smashed ink bottle leaks black into a cheap rug.

“Where was your head this time, my dear?” Maevaris asks. The magister picks up a scroll near her foot and unrolls it to skim its contents. The black string hanging from it suggests it is part of the Black Age collection. “The lost glory of Arlathan? Andraste’s march on the Imperium? The Battles of Nordbotten and the Silent Plains?”

“Fine, yes, I daydream like a child or a bard - and not the Orlesian kind,” Dorian says. “It won’t happen again, Tilani-”

“ _Maevaris_ , Dorian,” she sighs. Dorian cringes when she touches a large tear in the vellum, knowing it’s his fault the priceless document is now damaged. “Save the formalities for the old stuffs strutting through Hightown to lay their grubby hands on our work.” She gestures to the room. “Clean this up by… day after tomorrow, will you? Shipment from Ostagar is due any day, if the harbormaster gets his act together.”

“Ostagar?” Dorian’s mood lightens. “Did they find something that wasn’t destroyed during the Fifth Blight? Anything from the Korcari Wilds?”

“Won’t know until it arrives.” She looks at him pointedly. “This room. Clean and organized by the day after tomorrow. Or else I get first dibs and my name on all the papers.”

The door shuts and Dorian sighs. Shoulders sagging, he lurches over to the corner of the room with the leaking ink bottle and gingerly picks it up.

“Excellent work, Dorian,” he mutters while setting it on a table. Half of of the fallen books and scrolls lost their telltale colored threads, meaning he’ll have to skim through the contents of each to determine its place in the archive. “Could’ve paid more attention to where you were putting Genitivi. Add this to the time you nearly set the entire city block on fire….”

His problem isn’t that he’s clumsy or absent-minded; those are just recent developments. His problem is that he was raised to do great things like carry the Pavus name ever closer to the Archon’s seat. Unfortunately for those involved, he had no interest in the Magisterium’s politics or the many ways he’d have to sacrifice himself for power and prestige. And once he made it clear he wasn’t marrying the Everens girl or ending his relationship with Rilienus, his father… well, he was lucky to meet Magister Maevaris Tilani the night he left home. She offered him a position at a research outpost far from Qarinus and now he spends his days in Kirkwall cataloguing old Tevinter relics and documents found around the Free Marches, confiscated from Coterie and Carta smugglers, and shipped north from Ferelden.

It’s a good life. When he’s not working in the archive, he’s studying magical theory and spending his wages on wine, Wicked Grace, and the occasional service at the Blooming Rose, or losing those wages on several rounds of Diamondback and ale at the Hanged Man. 

It’s a good life and an increasingly boring one. His mind keeps wandering, leading into the bouts of clumsiness and absent-mindedness Maevaris speaks of. With every passing year, he desires more from his life and he knows he won’t find anything in the shelves of the underfunded archive.

Dorian pulls an unmarked scroll case out from under a fallen bookcase and checks its contents. Within are three yellowing sheets, extensive notes and observations on Kirkwall’s architecture signed by “the Band of Three”. Once Maevaris secured the third page at an auction of a dead comte’s estate, he pieced together the Band’s intentions - they were investigating Kirkwall’s Tevinter history, back when it was called Emerius and functioned as the heart of the slave trade.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Dorian looks over his shoulder and smiles at the sight of his best friend. “Takes your breath away, doesn’t it? People should hire me as their interior decorator.”

Felix laughs and steps into the room, careful not to tread on wayward parchment. Son of the respected Magister Gereon Alexius, Dorian’s former mentor, he’s been living in Kirkwall for the past several months doing research on his father’s behalf. It was a rather fortuitous arrangement and the two have been coming up with increasingly ridiculous reasons for Felix to stay on after his year in Kirkwall is up.

A book is tucked under his arm. “Was going to return this and look for another but I see I caught you at a bad time.”

“Could be worse. Could’ve caught me trying to put out a fire.” He points at a desk sagging under the weight of uncategorized texts. “Leave it there. I’d help you but Tilani needs everything back in order before the magisters arrive to inspect what the pitiful amount of gold they ship here every year buys us.”

“Or,” Felix says, reaching into his robes, “I can show you something that’ll make them _very_ interested in what you do here.”

He hands something wrapped in canvas to Dorian and takes out a folded piece of paper. “Woke up this morning to two guardsmen at the door asking if I was Tevinter. They handed these to me, said one of the people they arrested at the Blooming Rose last night had them. Not sure why they think these are mine.”

“Because we’re the only three semi-permanent resident Imperial citizens, people here want nothing to do with Tevinter relics, and you’re closer to the Rose than I am.” Dorian pulls back the canvas to find a dark orb engraved with looping whorls like on his fingertips. “Felix? What is this?”

“Wouldn’t be here if I knew the answer,” he replies. “Was hoping you’d know.”

“Certainly doesn’t look Tevinter.” He tosses the canvas and hefts the dark orb between his hands. It’s cool to the touch and heavy, like a lacquered wooden ball. He turns it over, tracing the grooves with his eyes and fingers. “A stamp, perhaps? Paint ink on it and roll the - _kaffas_!”

He drops the orb to his right hand and stares at the small deep cut on his left middle finger. He looks the orb over but can’t find the sharp edge that jabbed him, only a tiny red smear. He could also be imagining things but the orb feels oddly warm to the touch.

“Blighted thing cut me,” he says while wrapping it back up and setting the bundle on the table. “What made the guardsmen think it’s Tevinter?”

“This, probably.” Felix unfolds the paper. “Look.”

Dorian does. “A map?” He then squints at the faded silhouette of a griffon stamped in a frayed corner. “Is that a Warden seal? I’ve only seen this type of seal on documents made in early Divine. And this must be the Waking Sea… Emerius. Named by the cartographer. You know how old this is, Felix?”

“Emerius became Kirkwall before Divine,” Felix says patiently. “This is a Warden map made in Ancient. A priceless addition to your archive.”

“So these would be the Vimmark Mountains.” Dorian eases the map out of Felix’s hands and moves to the nearest light, a lamp on the overburdened desk. Felix quickly slides a leaning stack of books out of his way. “And this is….” Dorian tilts the map towards the lamp. “Ancient Tevene. Did you translate this?”

“Your Tevene was always better,” Felix says. “All I could make out was-”

* * *

“-an unmarked path through the mountains to an old Tevinter ritual site,” Dorian announces, tapping the corresponding marker on the map. “This was drawn before the slave uprising, which is why Kirkwall is still labeled Emerius. And if I translated the Tevene correctly, then this-”

“Was made not long after the end of the First Blight,” Maevaris concludes. She looks over the aged piece of paper. “An extremely valuable find, Felix, but,” and she glances sharply at Dorian. “do enlighten me on what makes this particular ritual site a significant one. You weren’t this excited when one was discovered in the Western Approach near the Griffon Wing Keep by Chantry scholars a few years ago.”

“The proximity to Kirkwall, Tilani-”

“ _Maevaris_. And didn’t you theorize that Kirkwall’s original architects were using the city as a ritual site on a titanic scale? Why fixate on this one all of a sudden?”

“The Band of Three proposed the theory. I simply pieced it together from the notes we have. I’m still missing several pages, by the way. And no single mage, no matter how powerful, could harness power on this scale. I think Kirkwall was a well that a group of overly ambitious mages could draw power from for whatever ritual requires stupendous amounts of blood sacrifice. I believe the actual rituals were done in the mountains.”

Maevaris just looks at him. “You want to hire people to go dig around and maybe uncover some old relics.”

“Well, I was hoping I could go.”

She sits back and stares at him. He tries not to squirm; Felix is already fidgeting and looking elsewhere.

“Is this why you’ve been so absent-minded lately? You want to discover the things you archive?” she asks. “Remind me of the last known expedition to the Vimmark Mountains, my dear.”

He sighs. “They came back with less than half their party and wouldn’t speak of what they saw or what they found. But to be fair, they said the same thing about the Deep Roads. Word is that they found a thaig deep under Kirkwall that predates the Blight-”

“Really? Felix asks.

“The point I’m trying to make,” Maevaris says before the two could derail the conversation, “is that the region around Kirkwall is extremely dangerous and I’m not interested in you risking your life digging for relics. Even if they’re at ancient Tevinter ritual sites.” She pauses and then smirks to herself. “Oh, if those magisters were eavesdropping on us now….”

“They’re not already here, are they?” Dorian asks. “Last thing we need is them closing this post - _fasta vass_ , Maevaris!”

“Ha!” she says triumphantly while the map burns down to a pile of ashes on her desk. “You said my name! And there are other ways to remain relevant to the Grand Archivist. And other relics dating back to Ancient are still buried around the Free Marches and Ferelden, waiting for us to find,” she quickly adds when Dorian keeps staring at the pile of smoking ashes in horror. “Don’t you have the archive to tidy up?”

* * *

“What did you learn?” Felix asks when Dorian joins him near one of the many stairways that connect Hightown and Lowtown while bypassing the city’s underbelly, Darktown.

Dorian always scoffed at the simple names given to these districts, accurate as they are.

“Madam Lusine still thinks I owe her five sovereigns,” he mutters.

Felix almost trips down the steps. “What did you do?”

“Lose two rounds - three rounds - _five_ rounds of Wicked Grace,” he says. “I paid but - not the point. The fight was between some stranger and several guardsmen from the Gallows. Thought the Blooming Rose was above their pay or they pooled wages together for the night... but they got on the wrong side of this vagrant, something about mages in Kirkwall and whatnot, and ended with half the brothel brawling. Keep patrol came to break it up but you know how that usually ends.”

“I don’t. Enlighten me.”

Dorian gestures to the towering silhouette of Viscount’s Keep before it disappears from view. “Keep and Gallows guardsmen hate each other. Imagine what happened when the patrol tried to stop the Gallows guardsmen. I would have loved to see it.”

They stroll past the closed Lowtown market stalls, ignoring a shifty peddler offering them a pinch of Andraste’s Sacred Ashes, and enter the Hanged Man. Felix twitches at the stench of stale ale, piss, body odor, and questionable cooking; Dorian shrugs it off and goes to the bartender.

“Ah, Magister Pavus,” Corff says cheerfully while cleaning a tankard with a stained rag.

“That’s my father. I told you, not every mage in Tevinter is a magister,” Dorian huffs. He shakes his head when Corff attempts to fill a tankard for him. “Is Varric in?”

Corff nods to the stairs leading up to the tavern’s rooms, one of which is Varric’s permanent residence. “You know you owe him five sovereigns, right?”

“Seriously?” Felix asks.

“I’m paying him back next month,” Dorian says and grabs his friend’s arm when Felix reaches for his belt. “Don’t. I can take care of it.”

“Can you at least pay me the twenty silvers from four nights ago?” Corff asks.

He sighs, remembering exactly what happened that night. Or rather, what he doesn’t remember besides throwing up all the ale he imbibed outside the Hanged Man. “Yes, I can, and we’ll never speak of it again.”

“What a secretive and dangerous life you live, my friend,” Felix remarks dryly while they weave around tables and drunk patrons. “Next time you come here, invite me.”

“You’ll regret it,” Dorian promises.

One foot on the stairs and someone hollers his name. He freezes and his stomach knots itself while a familiar one-eyed Qunari mercenary rises from a cluster of tables pushed together in a corner of the tavern. 

“Bull,” Dorian says neutrally. He leans around the Iron Bull’s massive form to nod at the various members of Bull’s Chargers lounging around the tables, drinking ale and eating Maker-knows-what that comes out of the Hanged Man’s poor excuse for a kitchen. 

Felix hastily backs away from the Iron Bull and nearly collides with a shifty-looking dwarf and her equally shifty-looking elf companion leaving one of the tavern’s rooms.

“I was seriously considering heading up to Hightown and finding this tiny library of yours,” the Iron Bull says. “Maybe take you out to dinner and then some.”

Felix coughs wildly and Dorian sighs, barely resisting rolling his eyes. “Not now. I’m actually here on business.”

“Really? So am I! Well, sort of. Just got hired by some Vints looking to frolic around this part of the Free Marches and they paid half up front, so we’re drinking it away. We’ll be here all night so if you need to work out some stress, I bought some real nice silks from that Antivan….”

He laughs loudly when Dorian shoves at him. Then he sobers and says, “But seriously. My door’s always open if you need company.”

Dorian allows himself to smile then, knowing exactly how genuine the offer is. “Thank you, Bull. Good luck with the job.”

“Hey, Chief!” someone hollers from the tables. “Better get back here before Gatt plays your hand for you.”

Dorian shakes his head at the Iron Bull and his Chargers, and continues up the stairs while ignoring the pair of eyes burning questions into his back.

Varric Tethras, merchant prince and professional adventurer, is at his desk with a tower of books, a goblet of wine, and a stack of papers. He also looks to be suffering from an intense headache, judging by how vigorously he rubs circles into his temple. When Dorian clears his throat, the dwarf immediately looks up, relieved to be distracted.

“Gentlemen,” he says, rising to his feet and bowing with an extravagant flourish. “How may I be of service to two upstanding Imperial citizens?” He holds the position for a full five seconds before laughing and straightening up. “I can’t do it, Sparkler. Why did she invite me to that dinner with those magisters? It better not be about the lichen bread. I _told_ her to stay away from the stuff.”

“Can someone explain,” Felix says flatly.

“He never told you? Maevaris is my cousin’s widow, which makes her a member of House Tethras,” Varric explains. “I’m the reason why she came out to Kirkwall. Wanted to be near people who won’t try to duel her in the streets and bleed their slaves dry to beat her.”

“That doesn’t happen anymore,” Felix says. When Dorian glances at him, he amends, “Doesn’t _usually_ happen anymore.”

“I’ve seen you around,” Varric says. “Felix Alexius, right? Visiting from Minrathous for a year and a regular visitor to Maevaris’s little library.”

“How do you-”

“He knows everyone,” Dorian says. “Varric, I have some questions about your expedition to the Vimmark Mountains. I heard-”

“That we came back with less than half the people we set out with and nobody’s talking? That we barely escaped the maws of a wretched monster from the distant past with our lives? And found wagonloads of treasure while we’re at it? Yeah, I heard it all. Made some of the shit up myself. Can’t tell a good story with only the truth.” Varric studies him. “Why? You want to go up there yourself? Retrace our steps? Wasn’t easy when it was me, Hawke, and our friends. Wasn’t easy when the Chantries tried to follow. What makes you think you and your friend can survive-”

“The Chantries?” Dorian interrupts. “They went to the mountains? I never heard.”

“That’s because they wanted to keep quiet about it,” Varric says. “Probably didn’t want word to get out until they confirmed whatever it was they thought we found up there. I wouldn’t know; some seeker just stormed in here, shouted questions at my face, and left before I could get in a single word. Haven’t seen hair or hide of her since, thank Andraste’s flaming sword. But not the point. Why do you want to go?”

“Well here’s the thing,” Dorian says. “We found a map. Well, Felix found a map. _Well_ , some Gallows guards pulled a map off some fellow who got into a brawl at the Blooming Rose the other night and gave it to him because it looked Tevinter.”

“A map, huh? I’m listening.”

“I dated it back to Ancient, some time after the First Blight but before the slave revolt. It had an old Warden seal and several markers written in ancient Tevene. One of them is a place in the Vimmark Mountains, far from every known route through and around the mountains. I don’t know where you and Hawke went during your expedition but since you’re familiar with the mountains-”

“You want tips and tricks on surviving them until you find whatever’s on that map,” Varric says. “Right. Okay.” He grabs his goblet and drains it. “Where’s the map?”

“Tilani burned it,” Dorian mutters.

“Really? I mean, if it’s that old you’d think she wanted to keep it. Anyway, sorry but can’t help. Wait, I mean - _won’t_ help. I’m not going back up there for all the gold in the world and you shouldn’t even think about trying. Ever been to Sundermount?”

Dorian pictures the Vimmark Mountains’ highest peak, visible from his room and hazy in the light of the rising sun. “No.”

“I have, multiple times. A tough climb for someone like me and I’m vertically challenged. You, a librarian? Don’t think so. Save your efforts and magic for something easier. Go to Ostagar if you want adventure. Heard people are tripping over old shit there every day cleaning up after the Blight. Or try the Tevinter ruins in the Frostback Basin, if you’re feeling daring. And tell Maevaris I have the harbormaster’s number. Got people looking for that Ostagar shipment; it’ll be at your little library in no time.”

Night has fallen when Dorian and Felix leave the Hanged Man. A guardsman strolls by, three workers loiter near the residences, and a woman at the corner whistles to Felix. At the stairs back to Hightown, Dorian fishes out a handful of silver for Samson, a former guardsman now wandering Lowtown’s streets begging for coin and lyrium dust.

“You’re going to the Gallows tomorrow, aren’t you?” Felix asks.

Dorian hums in response.

“What about tonight? Taking that Bull fellow up on his offer?”

Dorian hums again. He’s tempted but currently more interested in unraveling the mystery behind the map and the orb. 

“And a Qunari? Really? Even while we’re at war with Seheron-”

“He doesn’t hide anything. He’s Ben-Hassrath and tells everyone he works with. The Keep and Gallows know, Viscount Dumar knows, everyone knows. But he’s not here to decide if we’re ready to be converted to the Qun so no, I’ve no qualms-”

“Apologies, Dorian,” Felix says. “I meant no offense. It’s just… unexpected. I’ve been here for half a year and you never mentioned him, or that Maevaris and this Varric are cousins by marriage.”

“Bull only comes here when he’s not on a job and it didn’t seem relevant at the time,” Dorian replies. “Well, what Varric does for a living didn’t seem relevant. Until now. But if he won’t help, I’ll just find someone who will.”

* * *

The Gallows is Dorian’s least favorite place in Kirkwall. Its history is red with the blood of countless slaves that passed through it. More recently, it was the site of several bloody protests led by mage Kirkwallers against Guard Captain Meredith Stannard’s discriminatory tactics and methods. Viscount Dumar barely avoided a citywide riot by replacing the Keep’s Guard Captain Jeven with a mage-friendly one in Aveline Vallen and approving the creation of a dedicated mage patrol led by the local first enchanter, Orsino. Still, Dorian would rather take his chances with the ghosts haunting Sundermount than spend another minute in the shadows of the grotesque slave statues.

Felix keeps staring up at the statues while they cross the courtyard. “A sad history, this place.”

“A home for possessed mages for six centuries,” Dorian says. “Now it’s the city’s prison and the first thing visitors see. Personally, I’d blow this fortress out of the harbor but I don’t run Kirkwall.”

The prison warden, a Sergeant Paxley, looks bored rather than moved by Dorian’s request for an audience with their Blooming Rose prisoner. “Messere, no visits are allowed pending an investigation. You’ll just have to wait until Guard Captain Meredith is done with him.”

“This will only take a few minutes. Surely you don’t see the harm in that.”

“Just because you’re a rich Vint whose ancestors built this fortress doesn’t mean you’re owed anything, messere. I’m here to make sure no one starts rioting, not personally escort you wherever you feel like.”

Dorian sputters at “rich Vint” while someone in the row of holding cells behind the warden shouts, “How about some food, _Pox_ ley? How about you feed us so we _don’t_ riot!”

“Oh stuff it, Sketch!” another prisoner yells. “I’ve had it with you and your yammerin’. You just want us all in trouble.”

“I’m telling you - stay away from storytellers! And redheads! And redheaded storytellers!”

“I wasn’t even supposed to be at the Rose!” someone else wails.

Paxley sighs heavily. The sigh turns into a choking cough when Felix quietly produces a sovereign. Paxley stares at the golden coin, at Felix, at Dorian, around the hall, and then back at the coin. “Very well, messere. This way.”

Dorian scowls at him behind Paxley’s back. “Really?” he hisses. “Bribery?”

“You only want a few minutes,” Felix replies, “and he’s just a prison warden. If what you say about this guard captain is true, we’ll be waiting forever for her to let him go.”

The holding cell Paxley shows them holds a single occupant. Dorian peers through the rusted bars at the hunched figure sitting on the bench but can’t make out any discernable details. “So what’s he in for? Brawling with your comrades at the Rose?”

“Bastard punched Hugh in the eye and broke Ruvena’s arm,” Paxley replies. “You don’t attack the city guard and get away with it. It’s either the Bone Pit or the noose for this one.”

Two people start arguing in a holding cell down the hall and around the corner. Paxley excuses himself, leaving Dorian and Felix with the prisoner. Dorian peers through the bars and politely clears his throat. The man doesn’t move.

“Excuse me. Serah. Hello? You’re not sleeping, are you? Doesn’t look very comfortable sleeping like that, unless someone shoved a stick up your ass.”

The prisoner huffs a laugh and lifts his head. “You’re not Chantry.”

“I should hope not,” Dorian replies. He places the man’s accent within the Free Marches but the exact region and city elude him. “I am Dorian Pavus and this is my associate, Felix Alexius of Minrathous. I was hoping you can explain to us how you came by an old Warden map that these outstandingly competent guardsmen confiscated from you two nights ago.”

The prisoner stands and limps over. In the torchlight, he looks like any other drunken lowlife Dorian’s seen loitering outside the Hanged Man, dirtied and bruised with unkempt black hair, scars all over his face, and a three-day-old beard. His eyes, however, are bright and sharp, and he carries himself with a surprising amount of dignity and grace. There’s more to this man’s story than whatever happened at the brothel, it seems.

“But you said you’re not from the Chantry,” the prisoner says. “Why do you care about the - wait. How’d you know about the map?”

“Ancient Tevinter artifacts fall under our purview,” he says. “Well, my purview. They took it to Felix after arresting you . Map’s gone now and we were hoping you could tell us where you found it.”

“You mean if I went to that place on the map,” the prisoner says. “I might have. Why are _you_ so interested?”

“I have a theory to prove. The ancient Tevene on the map noted a location deep in the Vimmark Mountains as a ritual site for mages, which any mage with some knowledge of magical theory and Ancient Tevinter would think as strange until you consider its proximity to Kirkwall. If I can find that site, I can prove the theory to be true. And the relics left behind would be extraordinary finds.”

“That’s why you came all the way to this place?” The man’s eyes sweep over Dorian like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Dorian can’t help quirking the corner of his mouth. “What? Like what you see?”

“Don’t usually see Imperial mages,” the prisoner says. “Especially ones asking nicely for help finding their ruins. Usually they’re self-righteous or looking to gain something. You’re just… in it for the academia. So, why do you think this map’s so special?”

He barely resists rolling his eyes. “It predates Kirkwall’s current name. If you know anything about the city’s history, it was-”

“Emerius before the slave revolt and Andraste’s March, I know. Wouldn’t have risked climbing those mountains otherwise.”

“Why did you?” Felix asks. “Are you a treasure hunter?”

“I don’t need to explain myself. Or how to get there. Why should I?”

Dorian considers reaching through the rusted bars to strangle the man, though the prisoner is more likely to break his fingers before snapping his neck. “If you must know, my livelihood depends on it. Otherwise the Magisterium has no reason to keep funding research in this part of Thedas and I’ll be out of a job.”

“Maker forbid.”

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , serah!” Dorian snaps. “Tell me how to get to this place and I’ll - I’ll make sure Guard Captain Meredith doesn’t sentence you to the Bone Pit or the noose.”

“She wouldn’t,” the prisoner replies, glancing up and down the hall. Dorian hears echoing footsteps; Paxley is coming to tell him his minutes are up. “They can’t.”

“You’ve angered these simple louts and Guard Captain Meredith has a reputation,” Dorian says. “Bad luck, poor judgment, or both that you decided to pick a fight with her men at the brothel-”

“They were slandering mages when I count them among my family. I wasn’t letting that slide.” The prisoner grips the bars tightly and leans close to Dorian. “Bone Pit’s got a reputation even in Ansburg. And I’m not about to die for giving those guardsmen what they deserve. Get me out of here and I’ll tell you where to go. I’ll even show you the way.”

“You swear it?” Dorian asks.

“I can do more than that.”

The prisoner reaches through the bars, wraps a strong hand around the back of Dorian’s neck, and pulls him in for a kiss. For someone who looks like he dragged himself out of Darktown’s tunnels, his lips are soft and sure. Dorian is left feeling dazed, staring blankly at the prisoner retreating to his cot while Paxley appears around the corner.

“Time’s up, messere,” the prison warden calls out. “Guard Captain Meredith’s here so if you want anything more to do with this bastard, take it up with her.”

Felix elbows Dorian while they follow the man to the guard captain’s office. “Propositioned by a prisoner. Well done, Dorian.”

* * *

Guard Captain Meredith paces around her office, ignoring the two Imperial citizens in favor of muttering about her counterpart at Viscount’s Keep.

“... does she think she is. They attacked my men. If I can’t deal with him, then I’ll deal with everybody else as I see fit. She can shove Dumar’s seal up her-”

“Guard Captain Meredith,” Felix politely interrupts. “If we can have a moment of your time-”

“I know why you’re here, Serah Alexius, but no, I will not give you custody of this interloper or even an extended audience with him. I no longer have the authority so you can stop wasting my time and return to Hightown.”

“What are you talking about?” Dorian demands.

“The Chantry requested I hand Serah Trevelyan over to them. He is one of theirs and the Chantry has the final say in these matters. Wait.” Pale blue eyes narrow at Felix. “Alexius, is it? Captain Cullen told me you received the items we confiscated from Trevelyan.”

“Which is why we wish to speak to him,” Dorian says before Felix can get in a word. “They’re Tevinter in origin, which makes this a matter of great interest to Magister Tilani up in Hightown. If you could tell me where the Chantry took him, I can take my case to them and we’ll be out of your lovely golden hair.”

“They’re still in the courtyard,” the guard captain replies waspishly. “Now get out of my office.”

A small crowd had gathered in the courtyard, whispering angrily about something near the Gallows’ dock. Dorian shoves past them and their iron armor to find two women arguing with Guard Captain Meredith’s second-in-command. The prisoner - Trevelyan, apparently - stands just off to the side, glancing warily at the audience.

“If you wish to contest a direct order from the Most Holy, you can go to the Grand Cathedral and argue with her yourself,” one of the women is saying. Her sharp face looks formidable already but she also wears a suit of armor engraved with patterns of the Southern Chantry’s sunburst and her Nevarran accent invites no interruption. “Or accept that we will not be returning him to Kirkwall to stand trial for whatever crimes you think he committed against your pride. Now stand down.”

Captain Cullen Rutherford, a man Dorian enjoys admiring from afar, clenches his jaw before leaving them and ordering the others back to their posts. The crowd slowly disperses, the air buzzing with resentment, until only Dorian and Felix remain. The other woman, a redhead in Southern Chantry robes, spots them.

“We have company,” she says in a lilting Orlesian accent.

“You’re from the Chantry, correct?” Dorian demands, ignoring the Nevarran stepping in front of the Orlesian and Trevelyan. “What do you need him for?”

“That’s none of your business.” Her eyes narrow and he barely stops himself from flinching away. “What interest does an Imperial citizen have in the Chantry’s affairs?”

“None. Yours and the Imperial Chantry can go stuff it for all I care. But he has knowledge of something that’s of great importance to me.”

“That wouldn’t happen to be an old map, would it?” the Orlesian asks.

“Maybe. What do you know of it?”

“We gave it to his expedition. One of our scholars found it in the Western Approach many years ago,” the Orlesian says. “Trevelyan was part of a joint venture with the Imperial Chantry to discover where it led. If you hadn’t already guessed, the venture failed. Badly.”

“Leliana,” the other woman warns.

Leliana waves her off. “I am Sister Leliana. Seeker Cassandra and I came here to find answers for the Most Holy and the Imperial Chantry. Since Trevelyan is alive and well, he is returning to Val Royeaux to give a detailed account of how the Imperial Chantry lost their funds and men.”

“You can’t be serious,” Dorian says, ignoring Felix’s furtive attempts to pull him back. “That’ll take months, which is time I don’t have. How about you hold off for, say, two weeks? At least until after Trevelyan shows me how to get up those the mountains.”

“So you know what it is?” Leliana asks, ignoring Cassandra’s attempts to end the discussion. “Then you know why we sent an expedition to find it?”

“I have my own theory to prove. If it’s true, then Kirkwall has a bloodier history than anybody thought. As to the reason for your expedition? No, I don’t know. Unless your Divine developed a sudden interest in the most obscure and despicable of ancient Tevinter magic-”

“The Most Holy is interested in the truth,” Cassandra snaps. “And we’re here to salvage a mutual understanding between the Chantries. We’re not catering to the whims of a - I don’t even know who you are.”

“Dorian Pavus of the Magisterium outpost in Hightown. My pursuit is purely academic, something that I’m sure your Divine will respect. Can’t think of another reason why she’d agree to a joint venture with the Black Divine to climb those mountains.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Leliana muses. There’s a light in her blue eyes and Dorian suddenly feels uneasy. “You know, I see an opportunity here. A joint expedition on a smaller scale, without the Chantries’ commitment.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise. “You can’t be serious-”

“Oh, but I am. I’ll send a message to the Most Holy explaining that we’re still investigating, which you’ll be doing by retracing the path of the previous venture with our librarian friend. He’ll have his pursuit of knowledge and we’ll have answers for the Divines. All we lose are a few weeks and our stipend for the journey.” Leliana turns to Dorian and holds out her hand. “How does that sound, Ser Pavus?”

He doesn’t need a moment to think it over. Maevaris won’t be happy but he’ll be in the company of a formidable Southern Chantry seeker, even if this Cassandra seems more likely to murder him in his sleep than protect him from whatever lurks in the Vimmarks. He’ll finally have an answer to the Band of Three’s existence and possibly learn the purpose of the Warden map and the strange orb that came with it. If he’s lucky, he might even find reason for the Magisterium to continue supporting his life away from Tevinter.

“If you agree to this,” Felix says quietly, “then I’m coming with you. Not letting you run off into the mountains by yourself.”

“I know. You won’t regret it,” Dorian tells him and shakes Leliana’s hand.

She beams. “Now that that’s settled, where is the map?”

* * *

“Where are they?” Dorian gripes, pacing back and forth on the dock. He keeps his hands in his robes, mostly because of the morning chill and partially to make sure he still has the orb on him.

“We only just got here ourselves,” Felix notes. He politely steps aside to let a group of people board the Siren’s Call II. “The ship doesn’t leave for another hour. They’ll be here.”

Reasonable words but Dorian’s nerves continue to fray as the minutes pass and the sun climbs into the salty sky. He shouldn’t doubt the word of a Southern Chantry sister who is also apparently close with her Divine but he can’t help wondering if the seeker somehow convinced Leliana to renege on their agreement. They could still be at the Hightown chantry, having absolutely no intention of going down to the docks for this unsanctioned venture. They could already be on their way to Val Royeaux, taking with them the only person who knows where and how to cross the Vimmark Mountains.

He curls his fingers tightly. Trevelyan joined the venture as soon as Dorian admitted to the Warden map’s unfortunate fate and the thought pressed at the back of his mind over the next two days. He simply couldn’t shake off the man’s proposition, couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss and what it supposedly promised. For all he knows, Trevelyan used it as a ploy to get under his skin, rattling him into giving his all to help Trevelyan escape the noose. And he has friends in the Southern Chantry, friends who cowed both Guard Captain Meredith and Captain Cullen? Who is this man?

He sighs. He doesn’t know and shouldn’t care.

“Left us high and dry, Felix,” Dorian says an hour later. “Made fools of us. Of me. How hard is it for an archivist to get any respect around these parts? _Fasta vass_ , if I see that dirty oath-breaking no-good blighter wandering around Lowtown tonight I’m hexing him with night terrors-”

“I really hope this unlucky blighter isn’t me,” someone says behind him.

Dorian turns with a retort ready to fly. It lodges in the back of his throat instead while he stares at Trevelyan, who had taken the two days to scrub off the dirt, cut his hair, and shave the beard down to a far more attractive stubble. Trevelyan is terribly attractive and Dorian is in terrible trouble.

“Some… other blighter,” he says slowly while looking the man from head to toe.

Trevelyan wears silverite armor adorned with the Southern Chantry sunburst under a leather overcoat. His attire is neatly held together with a richly embroidered sash around his waist, something Dorian saw before on an Ostwickian noble who sold Maevaris an old dagger forged in Glory. Strapped to Trevelyan’s back is a giant sword and Dorian can’t stop himself from imagining Trevelyan wield it with his strong hands and broad shoulders and _kaffas_ , he’s in for it now.

“You’re from Ostwick?” Felix asks when the silence drags on.

“How’d you guess?” Trevelyan asks while hefting his pack. A suspicious number of weapons stick out of it, including dagger handles and a quiver of arrows.

Felix gestures to his own waist. “My father gifted my mother with one once.”

“So you’re part of the Chantry,” Dorian says, curiosity getting the better of him. When Trevelyan shakes his head, he asks, “Then how did you get involved?”

“My family’s religious. Lots of Trevelyans in the Chantry though none live in Kirkwall, thank Andraste. I just didn’t take any vows and don’t plan to, but they have use for me.”

“I keep telling you, become a seeker,” Cassandra says behind Trevelyan. A shield is slung over her shoulder and people keep staring at it while boarding the ship. “Vows may be involved but you _are_ afforded freedoms others don’t have. And we could use someone with your skills. Now, if you’re ready.”

She steers Trevelyan up the ramp to the deck, shouldering aside a group of Imperial mages. Dorian raises an eyebrow and glances at an equally bemused Felix. What could they be doing this far south and why hasn’t he heard of them?

Then a _very_ familiar voice drawls, “Andraste’s flaming hair, I’m not getting paid enough for this.”

“Varric?” Dorian stares at the dwarf standing on the docks with a pack and his famous crossbow on one shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking after your delicate Vint ass as a favor, that’s what,” Varric grumbles. He glances up at the Siren’s Call II. “That seeker, she’s coming with us? Seriously?”

“Why, do you know her?” Felix asks. Then, “She’s the one who asked you about your expedition.”

“Yep, that’s the one. Force of nature and equally tactless. Make sure she doesn’t, oh I don’t know, toss me overboard on the way to the mountains, will you?”

“What did you do?” Dorian asks.

Varric presses a hand to his chest. “Serah Pavus, you’re not accusing me of any wrongdoing, are you? All I did was not be more forthcoming to the Right Hand of the Divine.”

Dorian stares at him and then up at the ship. “She’s the Right Hand? And she came all the way to Kirkwall to… investigate some failed Chantry expedition?”

“Like I said, I’m not getting paid enough for this. Which I’m not. Getting paid at all. Doing this as a favor for Maevaris. She really likes you, Sparkler, so make my job easy and don’t do something incredibly stupid. Only Hawke gets to do that.”


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's a brief rundown of the history of this version of Thedas:
> 
> Everything is basically the same except that the Circles and the Templar Order went away at the beginning of Blessed, the age before Dragon. This is why people like Meredith and Cullen serve the city guard and why the Gallows functions as a city prison instead of the location for both the Kirkwall Circle and the templar headquarters. Also, Viscount Dumar and Grand Cleric Elthina are alive.

The Siren’s Call II is a large Antivan ship crewed by a motley sort and captained by a Rivaini woman named Isabela. She and Varric greet each other loudly and with tight hugs, then spend a few minutes talking about her business and about Hawke. She pats Dorian on the shoulder while he tries not to toss his breakfast over the side and coos at Felix.

“Aren’t you the cutest little thing,” she says, pinching his cheek and making him blush. She may have also slapped his ass before moving on to bark orders at her crew about the horses occupying a converted cabin.

“Whatever you do, don’t play Wicked Grace with her,” Varric warns Felix. “She’ll rob you blind and leave you walking back to the cabin in all your Vint glory.”

Captain Isabela invites them to her quarters later that evening. Felix goes since she asked for him specifically and Varric follows because they’re old friends and someone needs to protect Felix’s dignity. Dorian declines and sits in a miserable huddle at a table on the top deck, trying to review his notes on Kirkwall’s history and ignore the ship’s haphazard rocking. Captain Isabela claimed the going upriver is much smoother than along the Wounded Coast but Dorian can’t tell the difference.

He furtively watches a quartet of armed men and women walk by, wondering where they’re headed. There are a few settlements upriver of Kirkwall and the Planasene Forest is across the delta but he hasn’t heard of anything that warrants the weapons and armor. A voice in the back of his head wonders if they’re treasure hunters or smuggler and then muses about the Imperial mages he saw earlier this morning. They can’t also be looking for ancient Tevinter ruins-

Someone sets a heavy object on the table and he starts, almost dropping his journal.

“I’m sure there are more civilized ways to announce your presence,” he tells Trevelyan. He watches the Free Marcher unroll a heavy canvas lined with knives, daggers, a short sword, and an unstrung bow. “Are you outfitting an army or did I miss a memo?”

“Mountains are crawling with bandits and giant spiders,” Trevelyan says while unstrapping the greatsword on his back. He fishes a whetstone out of his belt and sits down across from Dorian. He picks a dagger and starts sharpening its blade. “When I was there, we also found a Carta base. They didn’t like the Chantry knowing about them so we had to end their operations. Lost some people, supplies, and time. Then we ran into darkspawn.”

“Darkspawn. Of course there’s darkspawn.”

Of course the mountains are crawling with them. What part of Thedas isn’t? The Fifth Blight may have ended a little over ten years ago without reaching Orlais or crossing the Waking Sea into the Free Marches, but a Blight always leaves darkspawn in its wake. Even Varric mentioned fighting hordes of darkspawn in his account of the infamous Tethras and Hawke expedition to the Deep Roads, though Dorian suspected he was exaggerating things.

Perhaps not.

“Explains all the men and women walking around armed to the teeth,” he muses.

“They’re mercenaries,” Trevelyan replies. “Haven’t told Cassandra yet but there’s a Tevinter party looking for the same thing we are-”

“ _What_? How? They didn’t have the map!”

Trevelyan shrugs. “Perhaps someone left a record of it somewhere in Tevinter. One of their people knows a great deal about Tevinter’s history in the Free Marches. At least she’s polite about it, unlike the oily bastard she’s with. Not the only one on the ship who wants to toss this Erimond overboard the next time he tells us we should be grateful that Tevinter bothered to civilize our barbarian ancestors.”

“Erimond is here? _Lord_ Erimond? You must be joking.”

Dorian never liked Magister Livius Erimond, a man given to extravagant pontification. His wily oratorical ways are matched only by his prowess as a mage; he was one of the many reasons why Dorian refused to get involved with the politics. But Erimond isn’t the sort to go traipsing around the southern wilds, so what is it about this ancient ritual site that brought him to the Free Marches?

The question answers itself: Erimond would be here to reclaim something on behalf of the Magisterium. Dorian can think of at least twenty other like-minded magisters in search of Tevinter’s lost glory if they ever bothered to travel beyond the borders of the Imperium. 

Dorian hates to see what could happen if Erimond finds the site first.

“Wonderful,” he mutters to himself, shivering at the foreboding crawling up his spine. “I suppose we’ll just have to get to the mountains first.”

The Free Marcher nods before sheathing the dagger and moving to the next. That’s all he does for the next several minutes, and for those several minutes Dorian watches rather than continue reviewing his notes. Trevelyan’s shoulders are tense, like something is aggravating him.

“You don’t want to be here, do you?” Dorian finally says.

Trevelyan pauses while inspecting the sharpness of a rather ornate Orlesian-crafted dagger.  
“What makes you say that?”

“If not for me, you’d be on your way back to Val Royeaux. Instead you have to retrace the path of your failed venture to sate my curiosity and your Chantry’s need for answers. That… must not be easy.”

Trevelyan shrugs and picks up another dagger. “Truthfully, I’d rather not be dictating every minute of my time here to the Most Holy in Val Royeaux. Just because I do the Chantry’s bidding doesn’t mean I want to be involved in their affairs but lesser children of noble houses don’t really have options.”

Biting comments about southern noble houses press at the back of Dorian’s tongue but he doesn’t want to offend the Free Marcher. It’s either a stunning show of tact or the end of the world, he’s not sure which. Instead, Dorian says, “I’m certain the first born don’t get to choose their lives, either. They have to carry on the family name, after all.”

Trevelyan chuckles, a pleasant sound with a rough undercurrent that shivers up Dorian’s spine. “You have a point. I don’t envy my sister in the slightest.”

An easy silence falls between them as Trevelyan returns to his weapons, an earnest smile now gracing his face. Dorian means to read his journal but he keeps watching the Free Marcher, feeling warm all over while his stomach knots itself. So he’s only known the man for a few hours and most of them due to questionable circumstances but he can’t help hoping he’s the reason Trevelyan smiles so brilliantly. 

The thought coalesces into courage and he gathers words to ask something that’s been bothering him for days.

“I have a question.”

Trevelyan glances up.

“Why did you kiss me?”

He hesitates while sharpening a plain dagger. “I thought it was a good idea at the time.”

Dorian stares at him, then stands up and walks away before he does something stupid like encase the man in ice until the end of Dragon. Berating himself for ruining an otherwise lovely moment and for thinking the Free Marcher was worth a try, he doesn’t look where he’s going and collides with another passenger when rounding the corner.

“Whoa there!” a _very_ familiar voice exclaims while a pair of large hands steady him. “What’s the rush - Dorian?”

“ _Bull?_ " Dorian scrubs his face and - yes, the Iron Bull is standing in front of him. He looks around but doesn’t see any Chargers.

“They’re below deck. Rocky and Stitches don’t like traveling on water. Which, if I remember correctly, you don’t either. What are you doing here?”

“I’m on an expedition. What are _you_ doing here? Didn’t you say you’re on a job… oh.” Didn’t the Iron Bull say he was hired by Imperial citizens for business in the Free Marches? “Don’t tell me your bosses are headed to the Vimmark Mountains.”

“They are, actually,” the Iron Bull says. “Don’t tell me you are.”

Dorian is in no mood to be mollycoddled and sticks his chin out. “What if I am? Going to tell me I won’t last an hour out there? Or that I’m a fool being led around by poor judgment and frivolous hopes and promises? I heard quite a bit already so unless you-”

“Whoa, whoa, no, not what I’m saying at all. Is that what got you all worked up? Who told you that? Want me to go knock some sense into them or cheer you on while you set them on fire?”

“What? No, you’re not doing anything to him - _kaffas_ , never mind.” Maybe he should freeze himself in ice until after the next age is named. “Forget I said anything.”

“Him?” The Iron Bull’s brow starts waggling. “Now you _have_ to tell me.”

Dorian deeply regrets opening his mouth. “Fine. But I demand quality libations in exchange for the whole sad story of how I ended up on this ship.”

“Don’t worry, Krem’s already got a cask out. Broke it open with his axe, so we _have_ to drink it.” The Iron Bull clasps a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and steers him below deck.

* * *

Dorian finally stumbles into the right hallway and sidles over to the cramped cabin he’s sharing with Felix and Varric. He leans on the doorway for a long minute, staring forlornly at the empty room and wondering what they could possibly be doing with Captain Isabela at this late hour. He sighs, sucks the brandy out from between his teeth, and shuts the door behind him.

As promised, he told the Iron Bull everything that happened after leaving the Hanged Man that evening several evenings ago, or at least everything he could recall after each tin cup of West Hill Brandy that Krem plied him with. Dalish yawned loudly whenever he started in on the Band of Three’s theory; Gatt, Grim, and Skinner pretended to listen while quietly beating each other at Diamondback; and Rocky and Stitches holed up in a corner of the cabin, green faces hovering over wooden buckets. 

Dorian had enough sense to withhold how else Trevelyan sealed their deal but the Iron Bull is Ben-Hassrath and sussed out the near-truth after he described his encounter with Cassandra and Leliana.

“You’re not telling me the _good_ part, I know it,” the Iron Bull murmured while Skinner ranted about Kirkwall’s incompetent city guard.

Dorian felt plenty warm from the brandy he’s consuming and from the Qunari sitting next to him but his face burned anyway. “Nothing important. Kept his word but I’m the fool.”

The Iron Bull patted his back and Krem refilled his tiny tin cup three more times.

Dorian reaches his cot despite the ship’s unsettling swaying and tosses his outer robes on it before rooting through his belongings for one of several potions he always carries around. He treads on his journal while making his unsteady way to the water basin in the corner of the cabin and sets it next to the oil lamp on the tiny gray table in the middle of the room before splashing water on his face and drinking a vial of bitter herbs and elfroot.

The cold edge of a sword presses against his neck and an Orlesian says, “Hand it over.”

First magisters and now Orlesians. Who else is sailing upriver into the heart of the Free Marches? Dalish clans? Darkspawn?

Dorian breathes slowly, waiting for the potion to work its magic, and holds up the empty vial. “I’m afraid I’m all out. If I knew it was in such high demand, I would’ve brought more-”

“The key, Tevinter,” the voice says. “Hand it over.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Dorian says slowly. His foggy mind clears in increments but offers no answers to the faceless Orlesian’s demands. “What are you talking about?”

“The orb you carry. Where is it?” The sword digs without drawing blood. “And no tricks; I’ll take your head off before you can cast.”

“The only trick here is reading your mind, which I can’t possibly do. What do you need this so-called key for?” Dorian replies, glancing discreetly at his pack. He only brought the orb because Trevelyan _was_ carrying it but he never asked why and Trevelyan never asked for it back. The city guard have already forgotten and neither Sister Leliana nor Seeker Cassandra spoke of it. So why is this Orlesian threatening him at _swordpoint_ to hand it over? “This… doesn’t have anything to do with a map, does it?”

“Do you have it?” the Orlesian demands.

_A-ha._

“Afraid not. Map’s in someone’s head, not my person.” He tries to calculate how quickly he can summon a barrier before attacking his captor but his head still swims from the brandy. He’s more likely to blow out the side of the ship instead.

“Give me their name and the orb, and I will let you live,” the Orlesian declares.

“Now wait-”

The door creaks open and he hopes it’s Felix, Varric, the seeker, or even the Iron Bull, checking in to make sure he didn’t pass out somewhere unfortunate.

“Dorian?” Trevelyan calls out. “Listen, I said I’d show you the way and - what’s going on here?”

“You!” The Orlesian removes his sword from Dorian’s neck, presumably to threaten the Free Marcher, and gives Dorian the opening he needs. “The Marcher from Val Ro-”

Dorian whirls around and creates a telekinetic blast that throws the intruder and Trevelyan off their feet. It also sends an oil lamp flying off the table into the dresser with the wash bin; the lamp breaks and the spilling oil immediately goes up in flames. Dorian tries to knock the water pitcher into the blaze with a bolt of energy and only succeeds in splintering the cabin wall.

“Dorian!” Trevelyan shouts and he turns to blast the Orlesian with a wall of ice.

He stares at the intruder - or rather, he stares at the engraved griffon on the Orlesian’s silverite breastplate and then at the distinct blue and silver of his mail tunic. A Grey Warden? But of course - the map was theirs so they’d know about it _and_ the ritual site in the mountains. But how did he know Dorian was headed there?

Oil-fed flames lick up the room and the crackling roar nearly drowns out muffled shouts and clashes of metal. Then a wood beam explodes and Dorian flinches from the shower of embers. Trevelyan grabs his arm and tugs him out of the door while the fire spreads around the frozen Warden.

“We need to go!” Trevelyan shouts over the growing din.

Dorian follows at a stumbling pace - and then remembers his pack and journal. “Wait!” He runs back into the smoky cabin despite Trevelyan’s protests. Skirting around the inferno, he searches through his pack for the orb, stubbornly ignoring the heat and the thick choking smoke. His fingers close on the orb and he uses another telekinetic blast to carve a path back out of the room. He snatches his journal up from the table before the fire consumes it and stumbles out into the hall, coughing and blinking away tears.

“Are you mad?” Trevelyan snaps while pulling him through the crowd of panicked passengers. “What were you thinking-”

“He wanted the orb so it must mean something. And these are my notes, the culmination of years of research; I’d sooner break this boat in half than leave them behind to burn!” Dorian retorts while following him up the narrow stairs to the deck. He notices the pack slung over Trevelyan’s shoulder and the weapons sticking from it. “Well, I see you’re prepared for everything.”

“I was going back to my cabin but thought you deserved an explana - shit!” Trevelyan flings an arm out, stopping Dorian in his tracks, and unsheathes the greatsword.

The deck of the Siren’s Call II swarms with Wardens, passengers, and crew. The Iron Bull towers over everyone and Dorian watches him plow through the Wardens with his greataxe while laughing joyously. Mercenaries hold desperate ground against the Wardens and Dorian finally sees Lord Erimond in the flesh, protecting himself with a barricade of wooden tables while pushing the Wardens back with spells. A blonde woman next to him blocks a rain of arrows with a barrier spell and then kills the Warden archers with bright bolts of magic. More Imperial mages drive the other Wardens back with horror-inducing hexes and the mercenaries put the panicked warriors to the sword.

“Dorian!” Felix stumbles to his side, wide-eyed and face flushed with exertion. His face is splashed red. “Are these Grey Wardens? Why are they attacking us?”

“You’re bleeding!” Dorian grabs his friend by the shoulder and looks him over. “Are you hurt?”

“That was me, sorry,” Captain Isabela says briskly while shouldering past them, daggers in her hands. They drip blood all over the deck. “Knifed the Warden trying to get the jump on him and hit a vein. Ugh, this is never coming out. Varric’s on the starboard side with that seeker friend of yours.” She stares at the smoke pouring out from below deck. “Is my ship on fire?”

“Sorry,” Dorian says before Trevelyan and Felix drag him away.

“They can’t be here because of that map, right?” Felix asks while dodging a Warden and letting Trevelyan knock them back. “I mean, she _burned_ it. It’s gone. And we never told anybody else. How did they know about us?”

“A question for the ages,” Dorian replies. 

He wishes for a staff; he left his back in Kirkwall, believing he could get by on his abilities alone. He regrets that fool decision immensely; a staff could focus his spells with deadly precision while reducing the chances of sinking the ship while everyone’s still on board. “They wanted the orb. He called it a key.”

“Who did?”

Arrows hit the floor at Trevelyan’s feet and he backs them up behind a wall. Somewhere, something explodes on the ship and the vessel rocks violently while spewing smoke and shrapnel. People throw themselves overboard to escape as flames spread throughout the Siren’s Call II.

“A Warden,” Dorian says loudly over the fray. “Threatened to take my head off and demanded the orb and map.”

He spots the glint of an arrowhead and grabs Trevelyan’s leather cowl to pull him out of the way. The Free Marcher crashes into him and Felix while the offending archer suddenly falls, crossbow bolts sticking out of their collarbone.

“Hey!” Varric’s voice somehow carries over the chaos. “Sparkler! Kid! Get over here!”

Dorian looks around frantically until he sees Varric standing on a stack of crate, reloading his crossbow Bianca. Cassandra is next to him, holding the Wardens at bay with a longsword and her shield.

“I am the Right Hand of the Most Holy!” she keeps shouting at the Wardens while deflecting their attacks. “Explain yourselves!”

“No use, Seeker,” Varric says patiently while taking aim. “They’re not here to talk and they sure as shit don’t care if you’re the Most Holy herself.”

“But none of this makes sense,” Cassandra insists while parrying a blow and knocking the Warden out with her shield. “Wardens are not pirates. They have no reason to board a passenger ship like this.”

“Unless they wanted something _really_ badly,” Dorian calls out. He twists away from a charging Warden and summons a fiery explosion that sends the assailant flying into the dark waters. Unfortunately, the flames catch hold of other parts of the ship and spread rapidly.

“Really, Dorian?” Felix asks, gesturing helplessly at the blaze. “Using fire spells on a wooden ship?”

“Exactly how many life-or-death situations do you think I’ve been in? You can’t fault me for using the first spell that comes to mind to stop that Warden from killing me!”

“You can do that without setting the _wooden ship on fire_!”

“Argue tactics later. This ship is going up in flames. We need to leave,” Cassandra declares while sheathing her sword and slinging her shield over her shoulder. “Can you swim?”

“No,” Varric says flatly. “I mean, I can if I have to and I don’t want to. Bianca here doesn’t care for water. I’m finding myself a boat.”

“Suit yourself. If you’d go down with the ship getting one down from its rigging, then be my guest,” the seeker replies, pointing to the burning boats. “Trevelyan?”

Nodding, the Free Marcher slings his greatsword over his back but tosses his pack aside. He looks at Dorian, face brightly lit by the spreading inferno. “Ready?”

“Never,” Dorian says. He takes one last look at the fire climbing up the mainmast to devour the sails, hopes his journal survives the swim to shore, and jumps over the side of the Siren’s Call II.

* * *

They slosh and stumble onto land, dripping and shivering and coughing up earthy water. The Siren’s Call II is now a blackened skeleton ferrying an eye-searing inferno back down the river to the Waking Sea. Other survivors crawl out of the water and stumble into the dark. Flotsam bob on the surface, crates and furniture and large barrels, and Dorian wonders what became of the rest of his belongings. He supposes it doesn’t matter; he has his journal, the clothes on his back, and the blasted orb.

“Wonderful,” he mutters. “Lost our clothes, our supplies, our mode of transportation, everything. Now what?”

“We continue upriver,” Cassandra replies, looking surprisingly unruffled by their ordeal.

The Tevinter party and its surviving mercenaries stand on the other side of the river, along with several unhappy horses and crates of supplies. If Dorian squints, he can make out the Iron Bull and the Chargers a little ways from their employers, checking each other over. Someone wades back into the water to holler something at Trevelyan about the horses.

“Well it looks like you’re on the wrong side of the river, Servis!” Trevelyan shouts back, earning a vibrant Tevene curse that has Felix laughing.

Dorian would be laughing too but he’s watching stained water drip from the pages of his journal and shivering intermittently. The gentle night breeze has turned frigid and he wishes for anything to shield himself from the elements.

“Well!” Isabela, former captain of the Siren’s Call II, says, squeezing water out of her hair and her rather transparent bloodstained tunic. “There goes another ship. Who’s going to finance the Siren’s Call III with me now? Think Hawke would invest, Varric? He did say he wouldn’t mind being my first mate if something happened to Casavir. Not that I’m hoping something did happen to him.”

“So there _was_ an original Siren’s Call,” Felix says. “Still don’t believe you shipwrecked it off the Wounded Coast over the Tome of Koslun.”

“Believe what you will, sweetling, but it’s the honest truth.”

“If you think about it,” Varric says while tapping water out of his ears, “this time it wasn’t your fault your boat sank. Send the bill to… what is it? Weisshaupt? Wardens crawled all over your ship and set it on fire looking for something. Or someone. Make them pay up.”

“If my ship was crawling with darkspawn, I’d know. And toss them overboard myself.”

“No, they were - they were looking for me,” Dorian says, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “One of the Wardens asked me for the orb and map. If they’re willing to fight an entire ship of mages and mercenaries over this thing, then they must know something about the ritual site that I don’t.”

“Sounds like a great big warning to stay away,” Isabela says.

“As long as I don’t disturb anything, I don’t see the harm in going up there,” Dorian retorts. “Except now I don’t know how we’re getting there. Everything we need is at the bottom of the river or with Erimond.”

“Think I might have a solution,” Varric says and gestures to Felix. “I need you to send up a very specific signal for me. Can you do that?”

Dorian jumps when a heavy weight settles around his shoulders and stares at Trevelyan wading into the river to pull in flotsam to salvage, looking smaller and oddly exposed without the leather overcoat. He glances at the others when he notices a lull in conversation; Felix and Varric trek up the riverbank while Cassandra and Isabela stare at him with disturbingly identical expectant expressions.

He is seriously starting to reconsider spearheading this venture.

* * *

Varric’s solution turns out to be a Dalish clan that traverses the region around Kirkwall. Armed hunters appear not long after Felix manages to send up the signal, a stream of veilfire that sears the sky. The hunters are led by a dark-haired Dalish mage with wide, curious green eyes. She almost reminds Dorian of a cat.

A cat that hopefully doesn’t harbor ill feelings for Imperial citizens like him and Felix.

“Varric!” she exclaims and hugs him, nearly lifting him off the ground despite her slight frame.

“Hey, Daisy. Long time, no see.”

Felix sidles over to Dorian. “Does he know everyone here?”

“Just the important ones,” Isabela replies. There’s a predatory gleam in her eyes and Dorian is grateful he’s not at the end of it. “Kitten lived in Lowtown for a while. Something about an argument with her clan that nearly got her killed, or something. I don’t remember.”

“An argument that we eventually resolved,” the Dalish mage says. She smiles widely while holding out her hand. “This is how you greet each other, correct - oh, where are my manners? My name is Merrill. I’m the First of the Sabrae clan. How do you do?”

“Not well at all,” Dorian mutters, pulling Trevelyan’s coat tightly around his shoulders.

“Cassandra Pentaghast, seeker of the Chantry,” Cassandra says, giving her proffered hand one firm shake. Her hard eyes take in the hunters surrounding them and the staff in Merrill’s left hand. The hunters in turn glower back and grip their bows tightly while stepping closer to the oblivious Dalish mage.

Trevelyan doesn’t give his first name but is the only one whose smile is as earnest as Merrill’s. She cocks her head at him curiously before turning to Dorian and Felix.

“And you are?”

“Felix Alexius of Minrathous,” Felix says, giving her a short bow. 

“Dorian Pavus, currently of Kirkwall.”

“Those are… Tevinter names, right?” she asks. “What are you doing this far south? That’s not a rude question, is it?”

“They’re not the only ones.” Varric jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the small cluster of campfires across the river. “They’re headed the same direction we are. They got all the supplies and horses. We got… what was it? The right side of the river?”

“Well, I’m sure my clan won’t mind helping you with that.”

The hunters visibly recoil. One steps forward, glaring at Dorian. “Why are you offering assistance to these _shems_? After everything they did to our people-”

“Fenarel,” she says sternly. “Their ancestors were responsible for what happened, not them. And they travel with Varric. You know the Keeper trusts him and Hawke.” When Fenarel doesn’t respond, she nods and says, “Then it’s settled. The camp is this way. You can stay the night and we’ll provide you with supplies in the morning.”

After a few minutes of walking in uncomfortable silence, Dorian sidles over to Varric. “Why does this clan’s Keeper trust you and Hawke?”

“We did her a favor once. Her clan needed help slaying a varterral so we did. It was a pain in the ass, let me tell you. Damn thing with its five legs, scuttling around like an oversized spider.” Varric shudders at the memory.

“A what?”

Merrill swoops in before Varric can explain. “Ooh, is he telling you a story? He used to tell them to me all the time when I lived in Kirkwall. My favorite part was when he started them with ‘No shit, there I was….’ _Hahren_ Paivel never does that.”

The Dalish camp is situated at the base of a curving stone ridge, close enough to the river for water but hidden from prying eyes traveling upriver to human settlements. Aravels, the Dalish land-ships, line the camp in a semicircle and graceful halla graze nearby. Elves sit around the fires, talking and eating, but a hush falls when they see who Merrill brought with her. Whispers erupt and many grab weapons while rising to their feet. Trevelyan and Cassandra tense but Varric gestures to keep their swords sheathed.

“Who are these _shems_?” an elf demands pointing an accusatory finger at Felix. “Why did you bring them here?”

“They’re friends of Varric, Ineria,” Merrill replies patiently. “They need our help. You know he has the right to ask. And don’t point! That’s rude, you know.”

“Our help? Even if they’re his friends, why should we help them? _Fenedhis lasa_ , why do you so easily trust these….”

The Dalish start arguing, switching seamlessly between their native language and the common tongue. Felix leans into Dorian and whispers, “I don’t think they’re going to help us.”

“We should’ve gone upriver to the settlement where we were supposed to dock,” Cassandra says. “This is a waste of time.”

Isabela eyes the aravels. “Well, we could always steal one of their land-ships and sail north-”

“ _Enough_.” The elves fall silent and step back, creating a path for an elderly elf mage. She has an air of uncommon grace and authority about her and draws everyone’s attention as she walks past the members of her clan to Varric. “ _Andaran atish’an_ , Varric. It has been long since we last spoke. How is Hawke?”

“Doing good, Keeper. Trying not to cause trouble this time and so far, he’s succeeding. I, on the other hand, need some help.” He gestures to Dorian and Cassandra. “My friends here need help reaching the Vimmark Mountains. We were on Rivaini’s ship but it sank, taking all of our things with it. I was hoping you could give us some supplies for the journey.”

The Keeper peers first at Cassandra and then at Dorian. She may be a head shorter but he feels terribly small and insignificant in her eyes. He squares his shoulders and holds his breath until she finally looks away.

“To the mountains? Did you not go up there with Hawke and Merrill six years ago? Why do you return?”

“Well… I let a story get out of hand and it didn’t go too well for other people. Seeker is retracing their steps to get answers for whatever went wrong. Sparkler here is a… librarian. Catalogues ancient Tevinter artifacts. He thinks he can find some up there.”

“I see.” The Keeper’s face becomes grave. “I will help you but only because of what you and Hawke did for my clan. You will stay with us tonight. In the morning, we will provide you with supplies and halla.”

“But Keeper-” Ineria protests.

The Keeper holds up her hand. “We must honor a favor with a favor. As long as our guests do no harm to us and our halla, we will be courteous to them.”

Merrill beams at the Keeper’s declaration while the others disperse, muttering angrily amongst themselves. “Thank you, Keeper.”

“Just warn us next time, _da’len_. What comes naturally to you is not always so for others,” the Keeper says, squeezing her shoulder. She graces Varric with another warm smile and leaves Merrill to make sure everyone has dry warm blankets and a place to sleep.

Dorian spends the night half-awake, uneasy with the knowledge that he is among a people who suffered centuries of unspeakable atrocities at the hand of his. Merrill’s defense and the Keeper’s intervention did little to ease their hostility towards the humans in their midst but at least they followed the Keeper’s word and left them alone.

He finally gives up an half-hour before dawn and sits up, grimacing from soreness and exhaustion. A layer of fog had rolled in from the river in the night and he squints through it to see two Dalish hunters keeping watch. Halla graze near the aravels and between the sleeping bodies, stepping carefully so as to disturb no one. A particularly impressive halla has chosen a patch of grass near Trevelyan, who’s sitting by one of the campfires and stroking its graceful neck. Dorian wonders how long he’s been awake.

Someone sits down next to him. “I’ve seen that look before.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow at Merrill, who’s bright-eyed and smiling despite the early hour. “Beg your pardon?”

“When I lived in Kirkwall,” she says, “I spent most of my time with Hawke, Varric, and their friends. Were you there? Maybe not; you’d have said something about everything we did, which was a lot. Expeditions, the thing with Isabela and the Qunari, the protests. Creators, those poor mages. I know the human Circles went away a hundred years ago yet people still hate us for what we are.”

“Blame Tevinter,” Dorian replies while pulling the leather coat around his shoulders to ward off the cold. “We did start the Blight. We weren’t very popular. Still aren’t, what with the communing with demons and slicing people open for power.”

“At least you admit it. Most people don’t, or ignore the parts of the past that make them look bad. But I believe the past, all of it, is important. The Keepers preserve the old ways and the old stories so that we never forget who we are and where we came from. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Varric told me.”

“After a fashion. Tevinter doesn’t need more reminders of its former glory. But the history…. At the very least, it teaches us that trying to physically enter the Fade is a terrible idea and should never be tried again.”

Merrill giggles. “And you think you’ll find your history in the mountains?”

“I do.” Dorian looks at her curiously. “You think I should go there.”

“I almost lost my clan trying to restore a part of our history. It’s why I lived in Kirkwall for several years. Keeper disapproved of the… lengths I went to preserve an artifact I found while we were in Ferelden. She finally asked me to leave before things within the clan reached a point.” She hums thoughtfully. “I never regretted it.”

“So did you preserve this artifact of yours?”

Merrill shrugs. “Hawke’s holding onto it for me. Keeper and I made amends but she knows why I’m really here. I suppose it’s the same reason you’re here - we’re both looking for answers. But mine aren’t in the mountains. No… spirits up there waiting to bargain with me.” She falls silent for a moment, drumming long fingers on her thigh. Then, “Oh, what was I talking about?”

“Something about my face. I do have a striking profile worthy of marble.”

The last comment goes right over her head. “Maybe it’s something Tevinter people do,” she muses. “Did Varric tell you about Fenris? We were never friends but wherever Hawke went, we went. And he used to have these sad puppy eyes whenever Hawke wasn’t looking. It was so sweet, even if he wasn’t. Fenris, I mean. He hated mages, even the nice ones.”

The name is familiar but it’s far too early for Dorian to properly place it. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Your eyes, silly!” Merrill leans over conspiratorially and points at an oblivious Trevelyan. “Sad puppy eyes whenever he’s not looking.”

Dorian looks at her, at Trevelyan, and then at her again before rubbing his temples tiredly. “These are not ‘sad puppy eyes’ and we are never speaking of this again.”

“If you say so,” she says, patting his shoulder.

Once the sun rises, the elves convince six halla to wear harnesses and saddles laden with supplies. Isabela then announces she’s going upriver to the river to the settlement since she has no interest in climbing mountains again.

“Oh I’ve already been there, done that,” she says while pulling her boots on. “But mountains aren’t for me. Give me the sails and the open sea any day.”

“Sorry about your ship,” Felix says, glancing at Dorian.

“Aren’t you the sweetest? I’ll have to look you up the next time I dock at Kirkwall,” she says, petting his cheek before awkwardly climbing on her halla’s back and steering it out of the camp.

Dorian eyes his chosen halla apprehensively, hoping it doesn’t have any nefarious plans for him. Someone politely coughs at his elbow and he turns to Merrill, who offers him robes of Tevinter make.

“For you,” she says. “Since your friend will want his coat back and I don’t need these.”

He takes them, looks at the golden thread along the hem and the twisting serpent across the dyed fabric, and feels a sudden ache in his chest. He used to see battlemage robes of this particular design in the Qarinus markets. Mage robes rarely cross the border to other corners of Thedas so how did a _Dalish_ mage come to own them?

“How did you get this? Also, why?”

“Hawke gave it to me.” She leans in to whisper, “He always gave bad gifts.”

“Bad… gifts. You’ll have to elaborate.”

“Hawke always means well but somehow they were never the right sort. Did Isabela tell you? Hawke got her a necklace once because it’s from Rivain like she is. But it was a fertility amulet so it looked like….” She gestures in the air. “Aveline got a shield from Orlais. I think it belonged to the person she was named after? But she hated the other Aveline. And once, Hawke gave Fenris a book.”

She pauses dramatically and Dorian raises an eyebrow.

“Fenris can’t read. Hawke had to teach him.”

“So,” he says slowly, pushing aside the halla’s muzzle when it lips at the robes, “he bought you expensive Tevinter clothing while forgetting what my people did to yours.”

“The green reminded him of me. It’s the thought that counts, you know. And he apologized. But I can’t wear them and since you need more… clothes, I thought I’d give you them. Makes sense, doesn’t it? They’re Tevinter and you’re Tevinter.”

“Then you’ve come to the right person. Green was never Felix’s color.” He sheds the coat and unfolds the battlemage robes, nose twitching at the musty smell rising from the fabric. He pulls the folds into place and cinches his belt and straps over them. He brushes the wrinkles out of the winding snake over his left shoulder and turns to Merrill. “Well?”

“It looks nice,” she says with an approving nod. “Very Tevinter.”

“I should hope so.” He bundles up the leather coat and bows to her with a flourish. “Thank you, Merrill. I don’t know what I did to deserve your kindness but I hope to return it some day.”

She beams.

Dorian finds Trevelyan near the aravels, alternating between feeding his halla handfuls of grass and securing extra supplies on its back. The halla looks at Dorian and suddenly brays, getting Trevelyan’s attention. The Free Marcher does a double take upon seeing Dorian and he tries not to read too much into it.

“I’ll never understand why you Free Marchers aren’t more daring with your fashion,” Dorian says. “Functional, I suppose, but I’d be laughed right off the streets of Minrathous. I’m not even going to imagine what Val Royeaux would say.”

“How do you survive the winters here?” Trevelyan asks wryly.

“I don’t, but at least I spend them in sensible places like indoors and up north. Have you been to Ferelden in winter? I have. What a miserable experience. Snow and rain, and _snow and rain_ , and everywhere stank of dog. And those wet furs and shapeless tasteless wool they adorn themselves in…. Anyway.” He holds out the leather overcoat. “I assume you want this back. You look a bit-” _Naked_ , his mind supplies because he can’t win anything. It doesn’t even make sense; the man is wearing layers of leather and armor already. “-lacking without it.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Trevelyan replies, smiling that blasted smile of his.

Dorian has no other reason to linger but he does, looking stubbornly at the sleek halla and not the Free Marcher currently pulling on his coat. “About this site….”

“I can find it,” Trevelyan says while knotting his sash with surprisingly nimble gloved fingers. “Don’t worry. Besides, Cassandra will have my head if I don’t.”

“That is completely true. I’ll even present it to the Most Holy on a silver platter,” Cassandra declares while striding past with a rather surly-looking halla in tow. “Now hurry up. The sun is climbing and we’re wasting valuable time.”

They leave the Dalish camp at midmorning with instructions from the Keeper that the halla are to be left at the foot of the Vimmark Mountains; the halla will wait until they return and then carry them to the nearest river settlement. There, the halla are to be set loose to find their way back to the clan.

“Sounds simple enough,” Varric says. He makes for a fascinating sight: a dwarf astride a graceful halla with a large crossbow strapped to his back. “Many thanks, Keeper. Be safe, Daisy, and come by the Hanged Man sometime.”

“I will,” Merrill replies. “ _Dareth shiral_!”

Once they’re out of sight and earshot of the Dalish, Felix looks at Trevelyan. “How long will it take to get there?”

“Two days if we don’t stop for the night. If we want to reach the mountains before the others, we have to keep moving,” Trevelyan replies and whistles to his halla to move to the front. “This way.”

True to his word, Trevelyan leads them through an increasingly unforgiving land to the mountains. They only stop to eat and rest their sore behinds for a few hours at a time; even at night, they’re moving by the light of the two moons, following Trevelyan through ravines and gorges and along steep ridges. The halla are willing companions for the most part - Cassandra’s has a habit of wandering away to snatch leaves from nearby bushes despite her angry Nevarran - and remarkable at keeping their riders seated. Dorian loses track of how many times he dozes in the saddle only to jerk back awake while still in it.

They pass the time by trading stories. Varric has been writing serials under a pseudonym for the past four years and pitches plots to gauge their reactions. Cassandra then reveals that she’s an avid reader and that his stories are regularly discussed in the Val Royeaux salons.

“They’re _popular_ there?” he asks incredulously. “Someone remind me to murder my publisher when we get back.”

Dorian and Felix field questions about Tevinter, which Dorian considers a good thing because most southerners harbor serious misconceptions about his homeland. They end up recounting stories of their various misadventures and magical mishaps when Dorian was Alexius’s student, which tended to result in laughter from Trevelyan and Varric and looks of horror from Cassandra. But when Trevelyan asks why Dorian left a place he clearly loved, he shrugs and says, “Politics.”

He ignores Felix’s sympathetic look and withdraws into himself. The moonlight and the dark ominous landscape do nothing to alleviate his mood.

Trevelyan approaches him when they stop to rest for a few hours. “Dorian. I want to apologize.”

“Whatever for?” he asks while pretending he knows how to unsaddle a halla.

“What I said earlier, it - here, undo this buckle.” Trevelyan helps remove the saddle and harness from the halla, which shakes its head, headbutts Dorian’s shoulder, and walks away to graze with its companions. “Whatever reasons you had for coming to Kirkwall, they’re yours and I’m sorry for asking.”

“You didn’t know I had any.”

“You still deserve an apology,” Trevelyan says and it’s so hard to ignore his earnest sincerity. It’s also hard to ignore that this is coming from a man who is frighteningly adept at slaying Wardens with a greatsword and terribly flippant about what happened at the Gallows.

“if I wanted an apology, it wouldn’t be for this,” Droian says, takes the saddle and supplies from Trevelyan, and walks away.

He settles down next to Felix, who’s already curled up in his bedroll. Felix sleepily says, “Could let him talk.”

“Not you, too,” Dorian sighs. “You know what he said when I asked about the Gallows? ‘I thought it was a good idea at the time.’ Do I look that easy?”

“Want me to hex him?”

“No. We still need him to find the ritual site,” Dorian says, nodding at the looming mountain range. Trevelyan said they were close to a certain mountain pass that led straight to the place on the map, but it should be negotiated during the day. “I put all of that behind me when I left home.”

“I know,” Felix says. “Get some sleep.”

Dorian says awake for a little longer, eyes on the Free Marcher keeping watch with the halla, and ignores the voice in his head quietly suggesting that maybe it’s time to start hoping for more.

* * *

Morning brings an unwelcome surprise. As instructed, they leave the halla behind at the foot of the mountains and unsaddle the graceful creatures. Dorian slings his pack of his shoulder and looks up when his halla loudly brays and stamps its near hind.

The party led by Lord Erimond is approaching. A smaller group than the one on the ship, it consists of him, the blonde woman, a few Imperial mages, mercenaries, the Iron Bull and his Chargers, and a line of packhorses. Cassandra marches towards them, her hand resting casually on the hilt of her sword; Dorian hurries after her, gesturing for Felix to stay behind just in case.

Erimond brings his group to a halt and rides ahead to meet them. He reins his horse in and it snorts in Dorian’s face, forcing him to step back.

“So you’re Halward’s wayward brat,” Erimond says. He still sounds as smug as ever. “How did you come by this place?”

“Can ask the same of you,” Dorian replies. “Never in all my years could I imagine that the great Livius Erimond would take a willing step into what he oh so fondly calls ‘the barbaric south’.”

“I do what I must to reclaim the glory of the Imperium. What are you here for? To dig up trinkets for Maevaris’s little library? The Grand Archivist is ending funding and bringing her back. You should consider looking elsewhere for your livelihood.”

“We’re not here to trade insults,” Cassandra interjects. “I am here on behalf of both Chantries and ask for the right of way to complete my investigation. You may follow us until you reach your destination.”

“You, acting on behalf of the Imperial Chantry? I find that impossible to believe. Investigate your failures elsewhere. Now step aside.”

“We were here first,” Dorian snaps.

The blonde woman urges her horse forward to draw abreast of Erimond. “You’re wasting our time. Let them go ahead of us. Their party is small and if Servis is right about the creatures that inhabit these mountains….”

Dorian scowls at her while Erimond sighs and says, “Fine, Calpernia. We’ll do it your way. Go on ahead, Seeker. We’ll be right behind you.”

They part ways and Cassandra storms back to the others with a murderous expression that could set fires just as easily as any spell. Dorian has to jog to keep up with her long strides.

“Give me an excuse to punch him in the face,” she growls.

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” Dorian replies. “I think he was born with that face just for that purpose.”

He thinks about the mysterious Calpernia, whose namesake was the foster-mother of Darinius, founder of the Imperium. Who is she and what power does she have that makes someone like Erimond so readily acquiesce to her suggestions?

“But he’s not the one I’m worried about.”


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: body horror/mutilation
> 
>  
> 
> Halfway through NaNoWriMo, I caved and made this my official NaNo project. Didn't hit 50k before November 30th but I'm currently reasonably certain this fic _will_ which. How. How did I get my initial estimate of 20k words so wrong?
> 
> Since NaNo is about sprinting through the word count, I had to go back to rewrite a lot of words for the sake of coherency and continuity. Then I got distracted by finals and Mass Effect. I need to stop buying games over the Thanksgiving weekend; that's how I got sucked into this hellhole called Dragon Age last year.

The mountain pass is a desolate place dotted with scrawny trees and bushes. Steep walls rise around them as they go up and up, and that terrifies the packhorses in Erimond’s party; they fight their handlers every step of the way and create no small amount of grief.

“Must be why the Keeper told us to leave the halla behind,” Felix says, watching two Imperial mages chase down a panicked horse spilling supplies all over the ground. 

Dorian fails to stifle his laughter and Erimond glowers at him.

Up ahead, Trevelyan kicks up the trail left behind by the previous expedition. Cassandra investigates every single thing they discover, from empty supply crates to gaunt remains of horses and people half-buried in dirt and stone. Every time they find bodies, Cassandra kneels to murmur last rites while Trevelyan stares down the mountain pass at the only other survivor of the failed venture, Crassius Servis.

“How well did you know him?” Cassandra asks when she sees him looking back at Servis for the fifth time.

“Enough to know what he’s like.”

“Is he dangerous?”

Trevelyan laughs. “No. He only cares about getting paid to do as little work as possible. Unfortunately for him, his employer Calpernia only paid him half up front to ensure he does his job.”

“Smart woman,” Varric says.

They find trouble at the top of the pass. Cassandra crouches to investigate the remains of a bronto in a clearing strewn with bones and belongings, and Dorian wanders off to investigate an abandoned fortified wall guarding whatever lies beyond the pass. He stares at the masonry, wishing he brushed up on his architectural history before coming here; this wall had to have been standing here before the Carta moved in-

Something clicks and something scuttles, and Cassandra says, “Something has been eating this carcass.”

“Dorian!” Trevelyan shouts and he looks up at the giant arachnid crawling down the sheer mountainside at him. 

It screeches at the dagger suddenly sticking out of its abdomen. Dorian scrambles back with an undignified yelp when the spider falls to the ground in front of him and sets it on fire.

The clearing explodes into chaos. Spiders skitter down the mountainside and out of hidden holes in the ground, seizing mercenaries and packhorses and dragging them underground. Cassandra yells for everyone to mount a defense at her position but too many spiders scuttle between Dorian and the others. Cursing his wandering feet, he instead heads to the Iron Bull and the Chargers. 

The Qunari laughs while cleaving spiders in half and splashing himself and the ground with ichor, an awe-inspiring and disgusting sight.The Chargers gleefully hack the legs off the spiders and the hobbled arachnids can only hiss while the others dart in to deliver the killing blow.

“Nice!” the Iron Bull shouts, throwing his arms up when the spider he’s fighting suddenly burns to a blackened shell. He slaps Dorian on the back before telling Krem to link up with the others.

The pile of dirt next to Dorian erupts and giant jointed legs knock him off his feet. Mandibles, clicking and dripping venom, hook onto his right foot and the spider drags him towards it. Dorian tries to incinerate its many gleaming eyes but panic kills the fire at his fingertips. The Chargers rush in to rescue him but more spiders lunge out of their lairs and one trips Skinner.

“I didn’t come this far to be eaten by a fucking spider!” Dorian snaps and stomps on the spider’s face with his left foot. It bounces off harmlessly and doesn’t dislodge his right foot. “Shit.”

Trevelyan strides into view, slamming his greatsword down on the spider’s head. It shrieks, spewing ichor and poison while finally letting Dorian go, and then Trevelyan cuts the spider in half. He hauls Dorian to his feet and asks, “Are you all right?”

“Seeing as I almost became a giant spider’s lunch, no, I am not!” Dorian snaps back while wiping ichor off his hands. He freezes, realizing what he just said. Swearing mentally and unable to look Trevelyan in the eye, he tries again. “ _Kaffas_. That was ungrateful of me. I - yes, I am. Thank you.”

“Good,” Trevelyan replies rather fiercely, and now Dorian really can’t look at him. “Never liked spiders. Help me?”

“Gladly,” Dorian says and immediately shoves Trevelyan out of the way to push a wall of fire on a giant spider.

A good five minutes pass before the spiders abandon the hunt and scurry up the mountainside. Erimond glares at the carnage before storming off to fume privately while Calpernia calmly restores order to the surviving members of the Imperial party. Cassandra grabs handfuls of leaves from a scraggly tree to clean her sword and Varric pulls an intact crossbow bolt out of a spider with a grimace.

“Well, that was an experience,” Felix declares, looking down at his stained robes. “Remind me to thank Tilani for the extra lessons.”

“As long as your father never finds out,” Dorian says while scraping gunk off his boots and pretending not to watch Trevelyan talk with the Iron Bull while ankle-deep in spider guts. He tenses when the Qunari reaches out to clasp a large hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder and only relaxes when the two part ways.

The Iron Bull strolls over to Dorian, grin plastered on his face along with ichor and grime. He leans on his massive battleaxe and says, “I like him.”

Dorian sighs.

They finally move an hour later and at a more cautious pace, keeping an eye out for spiders and other unsavory creatures living in the mountains. Trevelyan then says they’re near the Carta base and can safely set up camp there.

“Carta handiwork?” Dorian wonders upon seeing an abandoned fortress overlooking a deep chasm. The some buildings were heavily fortified while the others had been left to the elements. 

“No idea, but I doubt the Carta would build all of this just to run some kind of operation in the middle of nowhere,” Varric says.

“Smuggling lyrium from the Deep Roads, maybe?” Trevelyan says. “Where else did the darkspawn come from?”

Felix shifts uneasily, face paling, and Dorian suddenly remembers Hossberg. _Oh._

“Darkspawn?” Cassandra asks. “Explain.”

Trevelyan beckons them to follow him through the fortress. The ground is littered with broken crates and barrels, discarded weapons and mummified bodies. Dorian spots a faded Imperial Chantry banner under a gaunt gray corpse and presses his mouth into a thin line while quickly walking past. Trevelyan leads them to rusted gates barely hanging onto their hinges; beyond them is a narrow bridge crossing the chasm to the other side.

“Remind me not to look down,” Dorian says, staring straight ahead at the fortress on the other side of the chasm, a construct guarded by statues of dwarven warriors and striking griffons.

“Wardens and dwarves,” Felix says. “The first line of defense against darkspawn.”

Trevelyan nods. “Blight was ten years ago so nobody thought there’d still be darkspawn around here. Should’ve known when we fought off the Carta, though; some of them looked… strange. Black veins, pale eyes, they were tainted. But nobody made the connection until the darkspawn ambushed us.”

He glances over his shoulder at Servis, who’s explaining the fortresses to Calpernia. “I don’t know how I survived. Servis and I ran in there.” He nods to the narrow bridge and the fortress across the chasm. “We split and I hid in a storeroom until it was quiet. That’s where I found the orb; a Warden skeleton was holding it.”

“Then they know what it is,” Cassandra says, “and where. Why didn’t they come here themselves?”

“Perhaps they didn’t know where in the fortress it was,” Dorian says, reaching into his robes to check for the orb, “and thought it easier to simply chase people away from this place. But how did they know I have it?”

“Who knows,” Varric says. “But darkspawn? They’re a nasty bunch. Nastier to fight if you forgot to keep your mouth shut unless you have a Warden handy.”

“Isn’t that what happened to Hawke’s brother?” Dorian asks.

“Yeah,” the dwarf says in a rare moment of solemnity. “We were so close to the surface and then everything went to shit just like that. If Blondie wasn’t with us…. Sunshine quit adventuring after that and I don’t blame her. You sure you want to keep going, Sparkler? Two Chantries sent their best up here and they didn’t last the night.”

“True.” 

Dorian knows well enough how dangerous darkspawn are but he didn’t survive Wardens on a burning ship and a nest of giant hungry spiders to be chased off the mountains by them. He’ll take his chances just so he doesn’t return to Kirkwall empty-handed but others? Felix? “I’m staying, but none of you have to.”

“And leave you alone with Lord Erimond? I don’t think so,” Felix says wryly. “You know how I feel about darkspawn but I brought you that map. I’m responsible for this, too.”

“Maevaris will have my balls if I come back without you,” Varric sighs.

Dorian looks at Cassandra and Trevelyan. “You have what you need.”

“I do,” Cassandra says, “and if it were up to me, we’d already be halfway down the mountains. But Leliana… knows why you’re here and wants you to finish what the Band of Three started.”

“How-”

“The Chantry created the Band of Three centuries ago to seek answers to a problem unique to Kirkwall. As to how she knew that’s why you’re here… she’s the Left Hand of the Divine for a reason.” She shakes her head. “But I would not linger. There’s no telling if and when the darkspawn will return to this place.”

“But why _here_?” Felix wonders. “Is there an entrance to the Deep Roads nearby?”

“How should I know?” Varric says when everyone looks at him. “Just because I’m a dwarf doesn’t mean I know shit about it. But if Wardens and dwarves built that, I’m betting something big happened here a long time ago.”

Cassandra watches Erimond’s party pitch tents near the fortress’s well. She twitches when the mercenaries unceremoniously kick aside mummified remains and toss them into the chasm. “I suppose we should warn our companions about the darkspawn.”

“Try Calpernia,” Dorian suggests. “She seems the level-headed sort. Erimond, not so much.”

“I’ll go with you in case he tries something,” Felix offers. “Dorian may not be on good terms with the Magisterium but my father is well-respected. He’ll keep his distance.”

“Very well,” the seeker says but she still walks away like she’s marching into battle against an Archdemon.

“Smart kid,” Varric says. “Guess I should go claim some space for us before they take over the entire courtyard.”

And that leaves Dorian with the Free Marcher, who’s staring across the bridge at the fortress with a troubled expression. He has yet to say anything about leaving or staying, and Dorian hates himself for hoping that Trevelyan does stay.

“You’re not going back?” Dorian finally asks.

“I made a promise, didn’t I?”

“You said you’d show me the way and you did. You held your end of the bargain.”

Trevelyan looks at him curiously. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Dorian sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, an action he regrets immediately when he discovered ichor-coated clumps. What he’ll do for a bath or even a river to jump into. “You’re obviously not comfortable with this place.”

“I can’t leave without Cassandra. Leliana will have my head if I do,” Trevelyan says. “You know, I never rightly knew why the Chantry came up here and I’d like to know why.” He smiles sheepishly. “And helping you is much more interesting than helping the Chantry. At least you know something about Ancient Tevinter.”

“I’m fairly certain anyone sent by the Imperial Chantry knows something about our history.”

“No one as smart as you,” Trevelyan says readily and Dorian stares at him, flattered and flustered. “What kind of rituals do you think they performed here?”

“Ritual,” Dorian replies. “The more I think about it, the more it makes sense that these magisters cast just one spell. Something that was so powerful it had to be done far from other people. How do I know that? They chose the mountains near Emerius’s slave trade, where no one would miss a few hundred slaves from the thousands that passed through the Gallows. Makes you wonder what on earth they did here, if they did it.”

His gaze turns to the Vimmarks, which are slowly turning shades of blue and purple as the sun sinks in the sky, and he shivers involuntarily at the thought that this place, this desolate place far from civilization, may have witnessed magic on an unimaginable scale.

* * *

Next morning finds dead bodies and forgotten crates of whatever contraband the Carta was smuggling through the mountains. The Chargers discover - “He tripped over them and nearly fell down the chasm,” Krem said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at Gatt. - several crates of bottles of priceless Garbolg’s Backcountry Reserve in a crumbling storehouse. There are so many that Dorian suspects their authenticity but the Iron Bull points out that no one will care while opening one.

“Now that’s some good shit,” the Iron Bull says with a contented belch. “Tonight, we’re all getting drunk.”

“I can’t wait,” Dorian replies dryly, steals the bottle, and returns to the others.

By noon, they make another significant discovery - no Tevinter ritual site is hiding in or underneath the fortress on this side of the chasm. Dorian wishes Maevaris didn’t burn the map before he translated all the Tevene on it; the author might’ve told him where the exact location is and saved him several miserable hours.

“Across the bridge, then,” Dorian says while sitting at the fortress’s well, the only source of water for miles, and drinking from his waterskin. The Vimmark Mountains are, in his opinion, worse than deserts; he’s drying from the inside no matter how much water he pours down his throat. “If I can’t find anything to corroborate the Band of Three, I can at least learn why the Wardens and dwarves built this place together in the middle of nowhere.”

“Maybe this used to be Warden headquarters,” Trevelyan suggests. “And the dwarves knew the darkspawn the longest. Anything in your archive mention anything like that?”

“Plenty about Wardens and dwarves but nothing about a permanent base like Weisshaupt, Adamant, or Soldier’s Peak.” He wracks his brain for memories. “If the dwarves were involved, Orzammar could have answers but getting anything from the Shaperate is a fool’s dream. I’ll petition Weisshaupt once I’m back in Kirkwall.”

“There might be a reason why there’s no record of this place,” Cassandra puts forward. “And a reason why those Wardens attacked us.”

“Well, they’re not here now,” Dorian says cheerfully and caps his waterskin. He checks for both his journal and the orb before getting to his feet. “Time to go poking around whatever’s on the other side.”

“Is he always like this?” Cassandra asks Felix.

“You have no idea how much trouble he got me into,” Felix sighs, that traitor.

Dorian watches Erimond’s people while walking past and grimaces whenever they knock down a wall in search of proof of Tevinter’s former glory. Erimond doesn’t do any work; he walks around with a scowl on his face, snapping at the mercenaries and berating the mages.

“Must be a real ray of sunshine in Minrathous,” Varric mutters when Erimond starts yelling at an unlucky mercenary. “Maybe I should introduce him to Bianca.”

“Let’s spare your Bianca and cross the bridge, escape his airs entirely,” Dorian says. “Has anyone seen Calpernia?”

“Not since this morning,” Varric says. “She might already be there.”

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian mutters and hurries across the bridge to the fortress, careful not to look down. 

The Carta apparently used the top floor of the fortress as their base of operations; crates line the walls, all empty of their contents. Bodies lie in the dilapidated passageways and storage rooms, some half-buried by debris and sand, all savagely beaten and hacked to pieces.

“I’m going to be sick,” Felix says faintly, covering his mouth with a hand. “There’s so many of them.”

“At least it doesn’t smell,” Cassandra says and Felix’s ashen face turns a touch green.

Trevelyan nudges a dead dwarf with his boot. “They weren’t here when I was. Carta must’ve come back afterwards, looking for answers. They never expected the darkspawn.”

“Stay vigilant,” Cassandra orders, resting her hand on the hilt of her sheathed longsword. 

They cautiously cross the base, searching for the stairs that’ll take them down through the fortress. Dorian searches for Calpernia but only finds her path through the abandoned structure. Something clatters in the distance and the seeker holds a hand up, then beckons Trevelyan to her side. Dorian gathers magic at his fingertips and senses Felix doing the same; Varric quietly loads Bianca with a bolt.

After a few tense minutes, Cassandra announces, “All clear,” and they continue forward.

Calpernia’s path takes them to stairs hewn from stone and now Dorian allows himself to get excited. The first floor had been altered by the Carta, leaving him with little to look at besides the damage. The descending staircase, however, shows a level of masonry that Dorian remembers from books on the ancient thaigs and the Deep Roads.

“Dwarven-made,” Varric says. “Built to last and withstand pretty much anything you threw at it.”

“Can you tell when this was built?” Dorian asks.

“Nah. Dwarven stonework all looks the same to me. Bartrand would know, on his lucid days.”

They find more bodies and crates at the bottom of the stairs, the end of the Carta’s presence. Dim torchlight reveals Calpernia’s way through the maze of halls and chambers but she remains out of sight and hearing. They follow those torches, eyes on the shadows in the corners and over the ledge into the deep dark between the crumbling walkways crossing the heart of the fortress. Dorian dares himself to peer over a broken rail and looks down for a few horrible seconds before hastily backing away, feeling weak at the knees.

“Not a fan of heights?” Trevelyan asks.

“Do I enjoy the idea of falling from a great height and hitting the ground at such an impressive speed that I decorate it with bits and pieces of myself? No, I do not.”

“Father once asked him for a book from the top shelf. Made me stand on a chair to grab it because he couldn’t,” Felix adds and dodges an elbow to the side.

Trevelyan laughs and the sound echoes throughout the hollow fortress. Cassandra glowers at him until he shuts his mouth but his eyes are bright with mirth. Dorian is torn between shoving him into the chasm and shoving him up against the nearest wall to - he buries his face in his hands and nearly walks into a pillar.

“Look at these, Dorian,” Felix says, stopping to brush a thick layer of dust off one of the many Warden emblems carved into the walls. “Like the seal on that map.”

“Which I dated to early Divine,” Dorian says. “But they probably started building this place in Ancient, during Andraste’s March. But why here? Weisshaupt, Adamant, Soldier’s Peak, Vigil’s Keep, they’re all strategic locations. This deep into the mountains in the middle of the Free Marches… isn’t. Does the esteemed seeker have something to add?”

“No, I agree,” Cassandra says. “Nothing I’ve seen suggests this is a sensible location for a Warden base. But they didn’t build this fortress without reason.”

“That map said the site was here, right?” Varric asks. “Think the Wardens built this place to house the ritual site?”

Dorian doesn’t have a response until they’re two floors down. Layers of dust and dirt cover the floor and everything on it, including skeletons, rusted armor, and broken gray crates. Dorian touches one while peering inside it and the brittle wood crumbles.

“Wardens,” Cassandra says, peering into a crate with an intact panel bearing a faded griffon stamp. “These belong to them. Belonged. What happened here?”

“Darkspawn?” Felix suggests. “They seem to like this place.”

“Hey, Sparkler!” Varric calls out from another room. “Think I found something.”

The dagger in his hand is caked with hard layers of dirt. Dorian scrubs off as much as he can with his fingernails, revealing a product of Tevinter craftsmanship. He’s seen similar daggers, looted from Tevinter ruins in the Free Marches and kept within altus families for generations as heirlooms. He holds it up to the torchlight and his eyes widen at the ancient Tevene etched in the hilt and along the dull blade.

“Felix, do you see this?”

“A sacrificial dagger,” Felix says, peering over Dorian’s shoulder. “It names Dumat, first of the Old Gods. How did it get here?”

“The ritual site. This means a priest of Dumat came here. But was this an offering or part of the ritual? Why were the Wardens holding onto it?”

“I don’t like where this is going,” Varric mutters.

“We need to,” Dorian decides, tucking the dagger into his belt for safekeeping. “I have to find the site. Once I see it, I’ll know for sure.”

_I’ll know if this is where seven magisters walked into the Fade and brought back the Blight._

* * *

They finally find Calpernia on the second-last floor of the Warden fortress. Or rather, they run into her.

There is no more torchlight beyond the first few rooms so Cassandra and Trevelyan each take a lit torch to show the way. The light doesn’t do enough to push back the darkness surrounding and stalking them through the floor, reminding them that they’re far from the surface and the safety of the open sky.

“If we find a Deep Roads entrance, I quit,” Varric says. “Leaving all of you behind and going straight to the surface. Maevaris can chew me out, set me on fire, turn me into a toad, I don’t care. Never getting lost in those tunnels again.”

“Don’t all dwarves have ‘stone sense’?” Felix asks.

“I was born on the surface, serah. Never understood what that nonsense was all about. Bartrand still had his when we went to the Deep Roads but….” Varric falls silent.

Dorian tries to recall what he heard befell the older Tethras brother following that infamous expedition but something clangs in the dark, followed by the low unsettling groan of shifting stone. Everyone bunches up behind Cassandra.

“Why am I in front?”

“You have a shield,” Dorian offers. “Useful for blocking whatever comes charging at us from the front. Unless they’re jumping at us from above like those spiders did.”

“You’re not helping!” Felix hisses while Trevelyan turns pale.

The noises stop. They wait a few more seconds just to be sure before moving forward. Then Dorian turns the corner and collides with Calpernia.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” she groans, rubbing her forehead. “Watch where you’re going!”

Following her is a small group of mercenaries and Imperial mages. The mercenaries carry shovels, picks, and burlap sacks of what could be relics; the mages grip their glowing staffs tightly while casting suspicious glances at Dorian, those behind him, at the ceiling, and all around the cramped dark hall. Servis is among them, looking nervously at a stone-faced Trevelyan.

“What are you doing here?” Calpernia asks.

“What do you think? I’m looking for history.”

She cocks her head to the side. “I thought you’d stick to the surface like Erimond. Apparently not. You’ll want to go down a floor. There’s nothing of importance here.”

“Perhaps because you looted everything,” Dorian replies.

She just looks at him while summoning veilfire and throwing it into the dark. The Fade-fueled green flames illuminate a short crumbling hallway leading to a flight of stairs. “After you, Lord Pavus.”

“Maybe I should scream for fun, get you all scared stiff wondering what horrors _might_ be lurking down there,” Dorian mutters. “And don’t call me that.” He calls a handful of his own veilfire to his left hand and walks ahead.

A few steps into the next floor down, he knows there’s something different about it. For one, the ground underneath is solid natural stone, meaning this must be the fortress’s foundation. For another, ahead of him is a narrow twisting passageway showing none of the distinct sturdy craftsmanship of the dwarves. The work is crude and yet someone took the time to cover the walls in fading paint. Directions, perhaps? He could use some.

A griffon statue stand guard at a fork in the passageway, rough-hewn and proud. The pathway going left curves upward; the one headed right descends into the shadows. Calpernia joins him in contemplating both it and the dilemma.

“What are you really here for?” she asks.

“I want to confirm some things,” he says because he’s not explaining the theories brewing in his head thanks to the Band of Three and Dumat’s dagger in his belt. “And bring something back worth archiving for the Magisterium’s library. What of you and Lord Erimond? He’s not one to wander around the Free Marches with his own two feet.”

“He seeks the lost glory of Ancient Tevinter. A foolish pursuit, in my opinion, but the only way for me to obtain the funding. The Tevinter he seeks is long gone but it may still hold the key to our rebirth. I want to see Tevinter become glorious again, worthy of its history and legacy, a beacon of hope and might against the coming Qunari invasion.”

He blinks. “That… I did not expect that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Lord Pavus,” she says with a crafty smile. “But it seems we’re at an impasse. I see only one way to solve this. Right or left?”

“Well….” The way left seems to go up an incline while the right descends into the dark. “ _Kaffas_. This could decide my career as an archivist.”

“Members of the Magisterium funded my venture. My life is on the line,” Calpernia replies. “Right or left?”

Nothing informs him of the better decision, not the chipped murals on the walls nor the nonexistent rubbish on the ground. Dorian falls back on what he already observed. The stairs always went _down_. “We’ll go right.”

* * *

“Should’ve gone left,” Dorian says morosely while helping himself to a fourth serving of Garbolg’s Backcountry Reserve. He stares at the pages of his journal but the ancient Tevene stopped making sense a good half-hour ago. “Should I have gone left? I should’ve gone left.”

“Maker preserve my sanity,” Cassandra groans, sounding entirely too sober for how much she drank. “You heard those sellswords. A catacomb of corpses is not my idea of a discovery, unless you plan to either desecrate those bodies dragging them back to Kirkwall or reanimate them. And if it’s the latter, I _am_ obligated to stop you by any means necessary.”

“Like I’d waste my talents turning tricks and stuffing spirits into skeletons and mummies,” Dorian scoffs. “Necromancy isn’t just about making the dead walk, my dear seeker, but you already know that.”

“I’d have pegged you for an annoyingly cheerful drunk, not a miserable academic moaning into his books,” she says. “Is this how you spend your time? Bemoan your life while drunkenly translating outdated gibberish for your bosses in Tevinter?”

That is patently untrue, of course, but Dorian is far too drunk and annoyed to correct her.

“Not gibberish,” he says a touch indignantly. He studied ancient Tevene for a good ten years and is rather proud of his grasp of the dead language, something that made him invaluable to both Maevaris and the Grand Archivist. “A very old form of Tevene. Older than I am. Far older… than anything here.”

He waves at the entire rest of camp. While Erimond, Calpernia, and the Imperial mages secluded themselves, the mercenaries embraced the Iron Bull’s offer of libations and a good time. Varric, who’s even more sober than Cassandra despite drinking two whole bottles by himself, is currently serenading a large crowd with exaggerated tales of adventure featuring one Garrett Hawke, the elusive Champion of Kirkwall and infamous adventurer. Felix is with the Bull’s Chargers and Servis, playing Diamondback and cheerfully arguing with Dalish over her definition of archery. And Trevelyan is… Trevelyan is sitting down next to him with a bottle of Backcountry Reserve.

“Thank the Maker. You deal with him,” Cassandra says, climbs to her feet, and stalks away with just the slightest wobble in her gait.

“At least _I_ can read it! A pity you can’t,” Dorian calls out after her. She responds with a disgusted sound and a gesture that he knows isn’t taught by any Chantry.

“Do I want to know?” Trevelyan asks.

“Necromancy is far more than reanimating the dead by cramming them full of spirits. Besides, nothing good ever came out of trying to fit two into a single body,” Dorian informs him.

His cup is empty so he puts his journal away and plucks the bottle from the Free Marcher’s hand, ignoring the amused smile on Trevelyan’s very red face. Dorian didn’t think it possible for anyone to flush such a color.

“I’m sure,” Trevelyan says tactfully and takes the bottle back.

“So,” and the Iron Bull sits down on Dorian’s other side while taking a swig from a bottle. He wipes his mouth and leans in Trevelyan’s direction with a piercing gaze. “Trevelyan, is it? I know that name. Guest lists at fancy Orlesian outings we worked, Chantry people we escorted, mages we dug up magical shit for. Which one are you?”

Dorian groans and presses his forehead to his knees. “Must you?”

“Just doing my job,” the Iron Bull says, patting his back.

“Which is?” Trevelyan asks.

“He’s Ben-Hassrath,” Dorian mumbles.

“Hissrad. ‘Keeper of Illusions’ is the fancy way of saying I’m a spy. I use the guise of a mercenary captain to get around.”

Trevelyan quirks an eyebrow while taking a pull from the bottle. He makes for an incredibly distracting sight and Dorian forcibly pries his eyes away from the long line of Trevelyan’s gold-touched throat. Trevelyan then leans forward and somewhat into Dorian’s space, asking, “Are you always this forthcoming?”

“To the right people,” the Iron Bull says and there’s the hint of an edge in his voice, a subtle shift in his deceptively lax posture. “So.”

Trevelyan considers him for a long moment. “If you didn’t already guess, my family has fingers in every pie. They say I’m Chantry but I never took any vows. I do work for them, they give me a stipend and a bed, and I get to keep my nose out of family politics.”

“So you’re a Chantry sellsword,” the Iron Bull says. “That’s a new one. You know, the Chargers are always looking for new people. Capable, resourceful, knows how to win a fight. I heard you landed in the Gallows for taking on half the city guard.”

“They were insulting mages and I was three sheets to the wind. The madam brought in more guardsmen to stop the fight but I was too drunk to care.”

“Nice!” The Qunari clinks his bottle against Trevelyan’s and drinks. “Always loved a good bar brawl. Met half my crew that way. See this? Lost my eye defending Krem when asshole Vints came for him at a tavern.”

They talk about the odd jobs the Chargers picked up over the years and Trevelyan’s own adventures with the Southern Chantry. While Trevelyan recalls a Chantry-funded venture into the elven ruins in the Emerald Graves and the Greater Mistral they had to chase away, the Iron Bull nudges Dorian and gives him a knowing look; Dorian buries his face in his hands and wishes he was elsewhere.

He can’t move past what Trevelyan said about the Blooming Rose brawl, though. Mages in the south always had difficulty living with the legacy of centuries of Southern Chantry-sanctioned fear and hatred, but Trevelyan isn’t a mage and had the privilege of being raised unaffected by their plight. He said there were mages in his family but why would he go to such lengths to defend them?

“But you’re not a mage,” Dorian says after the Iron Bull leaves. He takes a sip from his cup only to find it empty. Again.

“My sister is,” Trevelyan replies. “People forget that mages regained all of their rights after the Circles fell. She spent so much of her life fighting for recognition, for respect, for the right to live. I watched her struggle to even be named our father’s heir because _he_ didn’t think she should be the next bann. He only relented when my brother and I defended her.” He stares at the flames. “She deserves better. They all do.”

“Your sister is very lucky to have you,” Dorian remarks. He considers his empty cup and then reaches over to take the bottle from Trevelyan.

“Can I ask you something?” the Free Marcher asks. At the consenting hum, he says, “Back on the ship, you made a point about the firstborn and you never talk about brothers or sisters. You’re obviously from a wealthy family of some influence-”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Noble-born have a certain way of carrying themselves, Serah Pavus,” Trevelyan replies wryly. “You’d have to try really hard to convince me otherwise. Are your parents magisters?”

“My father is,” Dorian says, mouth twisting unpleasantly at the words. He swallows another mouthful of Backcountry Reserve to wash them away.

“So you’re the son of a magister and the only heir… but you’re in Kirkwall working as an archivist. Why?”

Dorian squints at him. “I’ll have you know that not everyone has what it takes to become a Magisterium archivist.” He jabs a finger at Trevelyan’s face and misses by several inches. “Tevinter prides itself on its traditions, history, legacy. We would rather empty our coffers preserving buildings built in Ancient rather than replace them with new ones. We archivists help recover and preserve that history, and deserve far more respect than most people give us, _serah_.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Trevelyan protests though he sounds more amused than apologetic.

“And it’s something I’m rather good at,” Drorian adds. He takes another pull of the bottle, relishing the liquid burn and the comforting numbing of his senses. “I used to study with Felix’s father and found researching theories and rituals to be a worthwhile pursuit. I became quite familiar with the library and the Grand Archivist, which was probably the reason why Tilani sought me out after I left home.”

Trevelyan quietly asks, “Why did you?”

The liquor had left him with a numbed mind and a loose tongue, but he still hesitates. “Because I refused to live a lie. The goal of each family is to distill the perfect mage, the perfect body, the perfect mind. Requires extensive knowledge of family bloodlines and a talent for politicking. I was betrothed to a girl from the Everens family since birth but I wouldn’t play along. I detested the idea and I… I prefer the company of men.”

He stares at the campfire, unable to look Trevelyan in the eye and unable to stop talking. “In Tevinter, such predilections are kept behind closed doors. It’s the same of women. You understand that these relationships are physical, that you are never to actually expect something from them. You never look for more. I know many who married, had children, and carried on their dalliances in private or with their slaves. That’s just what you do and most accept it.”

“But you didn’t,” Trevelyan says softly.

“I met someone while I lived with Felix and Alexius,” Dorian says. He sees Rilienus so clearly in his mind, skin the color of aged whiskey and a smile that always made him weak at the knees. “We talked often of living in one of the smaller cities, away from Qarinus and Minrathous and our families. But my father somehow found out and… tricked me into coming home for a visit. He imprisoned me in my own rooms and had Rilienus sent north to Seheron. I assume he died fighting the Qunari. I don’t know; I wasn’t allowed contact with Felix or anyone else until I agreed to marry Livia.”

“Dorian….”

“It went on for months. He’d come into my rooms and try to talk me into it. He reminded me of the legacy of the Pavus name and the responsibilities I’m expected to have as his heir. Reminded me of the glory and prestige and power I could bring to the name. But I’ve seen what it does to people. I know what it’ll do to me. I made it clear I wouldn’t play along and then he finally - he tried to….” And then he stops because he’s simply not drunk enough to keep digging into his memories. He can still recall that terrible night, the one and only time he used magic against his own father.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, a warm comforting weight, and he looks at Trevelyan. He braces for the sympathy, the pity, the platitudes that always meant nothing to him and everything to his audience.

“Are you all right?” Trevelyan asks.

 _It happened years ago. It’s in the past. I’m fine now,_ he should say but drinking has a terrible habit of making him honest. He supposes he’s lucky they’re the only ones sitting by the fire. “Not really, no.”

“What do you need?” Trevelyan asks, continuing to be frustratingly perfect and frustrating in general.

What he needs is more drink than what’s in the bottle in his hand to send him spiralling downward into blissful oblivion. What he needs is for the chamber he stumbled into after going right at the fork to give him something worthwhile to bring back to Kirkwall. What he needs is for the Magisterium to stop threatening to cut off funding for the research outpost, stranding him in the south. What he needs is for Magister Pavus to apologize and keep apologizing for the rest of his life.

So Dorian takes a very long pull from the bottle and says, “Why did you kiss me?”

Trevelyan flinches. “I told you why.”

“Yes, I remember quite clearly,” he says acidly. He leans over, trying to catch and hold Trevelyan’s gaze, but his head is so heavy. “You said, and I quote, ‘I thought it was a good idea at the time.’ But I don’t believe you anymore.”

Trevelyan stares at his hands, clenching and unclenching them while struggling with an answer. “I wasn’t lying,” he says. “I was having a terrible day on top of a terrible month. The Gallows treated me terribly, wouldn’t let me send a message to the Grand Cleric who was just several flights of stairs away. And then you came in. You were… something to behold and that was before you started in about the map and your theory.”

“Not mine,” Dorian says. “But I wanted to finish what they started.” Then, “I wasn’t even trying for a grand entrance.”

“No, you were just very determined.” Trevelyan smiles wryly and reaches for the bottle, easing it out of Dorian’s loose grasp. “Then you brought up the Bone Pit and I panicked. I wasn’t lying about that either; everyone knows that the prisoners sentenced to the quarry never return as themselves, if they return at all. And if I went there, I might never see you again.”

“Oh,” Dorian says, or thinks he says. 

“I wanted you to know I wasn’t ditching Kirkwall as soon as you got me out. I didn’t… mean to suggest that you were easy or easy to take advantage of. I went to your cabin to explain that and saw the Warden holding a sword to your neck. Then… you know the rest.” He drinks from the near-empty bottle. “So that’s the story. And now we’re here.”

“Yes, here we are.” There’s a considering look on Trevelyan’s face that Dorian tries to place but reading someone while outstandingly drunk is an incredibly difficult task. The next best thing, he reasons, is taking action while still fueled by liquid courage. “I… I think I’d like another kiss. Properly, this time. You owe me.”

“Do I?” Trevelyan asks, amused and embarrassed. His cheeks burn bright red and the color spreads down his neck, disappearing under the cowl. “I don’t think I should.”

“And why not?” he asks, swaying into Trevelyan’s space. 

Trevelyan doesn’t pull back and his gray eyes darken. And yet. 

“Because we’re drunk and I’m not taking advantage of you.”

Dorian sighs and buries his face in Trevelyan’s shoulder, breathing in the liquor on his breath and the Marcher’s warm scent. “You are far too good to be wandering around as a Chantry sellsword.”

A huff of laughter in his ear and an arm around his shoulders are the last things Dorian remembers before he falls asleep.

* * *

_He beholds a city, its walls and towers and soaring arches glinting gold in the light of the river overhead. Gilded banners fly from the spires to a wind he can’t feel. It is the only thing of color in this gray world, a bright beacon drawing him in like a moth to flame. Voices in the air, a chorus of discordant murmurs, beckon him forward and he follows one sluggish step at a time. The voices grow in volume, in strength, in number, as he approaches the shut gates of the golden city._

__“Open the gates. Release us from our gilded cage.”

“We will give you our secrets, our knowledge. We will teach you our magic.”

“You will have our power and you will have dominion.”

“You will never want again. Free us from this prison and your days will never darken.” __

_A glowing seal locks the gates. The voices press against the other side, clamoring for him, begging him to break it. He raises a hand to it and his fingers tremble as they brush against its magic. Whoever sealed these gates was immensely powerful and talented but he finds weaknesses in the apparatus, places where the magic eroded with the passage of time._

_How easy it would be to apply pressure in the right places, to warp with his own magic until it broke._

__“Why should I do this? What’s in it for me?” _he asks._

 _The gates shudder._ “ You desire knowledge? We will tell you all. You still fear your father? We will bend him to your will. You lust for that Trevelyan boy? We will make him yours. Free us and you will have all that you desire.” __

_How easy it would be to fling open the golden gates. How easy it would be to release the voices promising him such things. Temptation bores a gaping hole in his chest, creating a yawning aching emptiness that the voices promise to fill._

“No, I cannot. I will not.” _he still says. He knows better. He_ is _better._ “I won’t do it.” __

_Binding magic seizes him and he watches helplessly as his right hand touches the seal. It breaks._

_The voices howl and the golden walls shake. Banners are torn from the crumbling spires by the maelstrom. He watches, horrified, as the city blackens, darker than the gray world, a void draining everything of light. Fissures split the ground under his feet and he falls_ awake with a gasp and then doubles over with a groan. His head throbs painfully and his mouth tastes like bitter ash.

“ _Fasta vass._ Shit. Fuck.” He presses fingers to the spot between his eyebrows but the pressure does little to relieve the headache. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Two bottles’ worth of Backcountry Reserve, Sparkler? You earned it,” Varric remarks while cleaning Bianca. He sits on the other side of the too-bright campfire, looking none the worse for wear. Dorian envies his dwarven constitution.

“How early is it?” he mutters into his hands. The camp is so quiet outside the crackling fires and the telltale steps of the current watch making its rounds. He’d look at the moons but his head hurts too much to move.

A very sleepy Cassandra snaps back, “Too early. Shut up or I’ll lop your head off and toss it off the mountain.”

“I’d welcome it.”

Felix whines and Dorian peers at his huddled body. His head is pillowed by his bundled stained outer robes and he looks as miserably hungover as Dorian feels. Add the frightening nest of giant spiders, the Wardens on Isabela’s ship, and Erimond’s presence, and Dorian’s starting to regret having Felix here. If Alexius knew… it’s better that he never does. 

The arm around his waist tightens and Dorian abruptly becomes aware of Trevelyan asleep next to him, curled up with his forehead pressed to Dorian’s hip. Dorian stares down at the Marcher and forgets about his headache for a long moment, entranced by the play of warm firelight on Trevelyan’s scarred face. He doesn’t wonder where those scars came from, or what it would be like to wake to that face every morning.

“Do you two need a tent?” Varric suddenly asks.

He sighs. “Varric-”

Varric points at Trevelyan with Bianca’s polished grip. “I know you look at the mirror plenty but have you seen yourself lately? You’re happy, Sparkler, and it shows. It’s a good look.”

He wants to believe Varric but he knows better. “And in a few days, we’ll be back in Kirkwall and everything will go back to normal. I have a livelihood to fight for and he’s off to wherever the Chantry sends him.”

“Sparkler.”

“It’s called being realistic, Varric, I’m sure you’ve heard of it. You should try it sometime-”

“ _Sparkler_ ,” Varric hisses, looking pointedly at something over Dorian’s right shoulder while calmly and quickly reassembling Bianca.

That’s when Dorian hears the wet guttural breathing and the quiet click-clack of metal on stone. He slowly reaches down and shakes Trevelyan awake. “Rise and shine. Let’s see you put on a show with that giant sword of yours.”

A bloodshot gray eye opens. “How many?”

“One really ugly armored genlock coming up on you two,” Varric says, “and a bunch more crawling down the mountain at us. Ten at least.” He nudges Felix’s foot with a crossbow bolt and then jabs him in the calf with the pointy end when Felix only rolls over, muttering. “Kid, we’re about to get ambushed. Wake up.”

Someone in Erimond’s camp suddenly screams. Dorian twists around and sets fire to the genlock, which roars and charges him. It suddenly sputters and collapses, Trevelyan’s dagger sticking out of its throat. Cassandra springs to her feet, sweeping up her sword and shield, and storms off to slay darkspawn like she wasn’t sound asleep a second ago.

“Stay back,” Trevelyan says while yanking on his leather coat. “You’re more effective from afar, unless you’re a knight-enchanter.”

“I’m the mage here, I know what I’m doing,” Dorian says, bristling. He proves his point by knocking a genlock off the mountainside with a bolt of lightning.

“Only saying it because you like getting up close and personal with danger,” Trevelyan says, squeezes his shoulder, and runs off after the seeker.

Dorian watches him make short brutal work of the tall hurlock cornering Cassandra against a crumbling wall and almost misses the shriek scurrying through the deep shadows towards him. He sets it ablaze and Felix sends it flying across the courtyard into the chasm.

“I hate this place,” Felix tells him with feeling while generating a telekinetic blast that knocks more darkspawn off the mountainside. The ones that don’t die from the long fall get picked off one by one by Dorian and Varric. “I’m never following you outside again.”

“But imagine all the fun you’d miss out on,” Dorian replies while hexing a group of hurlocks and genlocks trying to swarm Trevelyan and Cassandra. They scatter in panic and run right into the Iron Bull and his Chargers. “Much better than walking back and forth between your house and the archive in quiet boring Hightown day in and day out for a year. Ha! Take that, you filth!”

“Quiet boring Hightown until it’s after dark and a gang of thieves tries to rob you in front of the chantry,” Felix says. “And have you heard Varric’s stories about Darktown’s tunnels?”

“Too many times.” Dorian lashes out with a blindingly bright bolt of energy at a hurlock emissary attacking Calpernia. She nods and then kills a genlock sneaking up on him.

A bellow rattles the night and a massive armored ogre plows into the courtyard, knocking down buildings and crushing both mercenaries and darkspawn underfoot. The Iron Bull laughs, an infectious sound that makes Dorian’s blood sing with battle. He summons as much of the Fade’s energy to his hands as he can handle and then pushes out a barrier that reaches Trevelyan and Cassandra.

“Well, shit,” Varric groans next to him. “I’m out of arrows.”

* * *

Dawn arrives in pale shades of blue and gold, illuminating the night’s carnage. Red from the sellswords’ bodies run into the corrosive black ichor of the slain darkspawn and stain the ground. Dorian immediately rubs his face clean but only finds damp dirt on his hands, a relief that makes them tremble. It only takes a drop of black for the taint to take hold and he thinks about the Carta members Trevelyan described, the Blight in their eyes and veins. He thinks about Felix’s mother, Lady Livia Arida, dying in a darkspawn attack on the road to Hossberg while Felix barely escaped with the rest of his life. 

He chases away the dark thoughts with a brash burst of laughter and a quip. “Well, _that_ got rid of the hangover.”

“I’m never sleeping again,” Felix says tiredly. “Dream about the Black City and wake up to darkspawn….”

Dorian turns to him. “What-”

“How are you two holding up?” Varric calls out. He’s still poking and prodding at the corpses, a bundle of intact bolts in hand.

“We’re all right,” Felix replies. “What of Erimond?”

“Apparently the mercenaries took the brunt of the ambush. Think they’re down to just a handful, the mages, and Tiny’s Chargers.”

“Tiny? Really?”

Varric waves Dorian off. “Heard our favorite magister’s been cursing up a storm, raving about all of his efforts being wasted on a miserable mountain in the pit of civilization.”

“I don’t disagree with him,” Cassandra declares, returning from a perimeter check with Trevelyan. They’re dusty and covered in drying blood but are otherwise fine. “Not his exact words, obviously, but I agree with the fruitlessness. I don’t recall _you_ mentioning any hordes when you travelled these mountains with the Champion.”

“Okay, Seeker. First of all, we didn’t come this way. Second of all, we did find darkspawn but just a real nasty handful. Thirdly, if Trevelyan or I knew that an entire horde was gathering at this very spot, would we keep that from you? No, we wouldn’t,” Varric retorts. “It was a few years after the Blight; of course these mountains are crawling with darkspawn! Everything’s still crawling with darkspawn. But not like this. This was… something else. Andraste’s-” He pauses at Cassandra’s glower. “They had an _ogre_. No wonder the group the Chantry sent didn’t make it.”

“I’m amazed you survived,” Felix tells Trevelyan.

“And if we want to keep surviving, we’re leaving this place today,” Cassandra says. “You have the rest of this morning to find what you need, Pavus, and then we return to Kirkwall.”

* * *

They move through the Warden fortress quickly, only stopping to replace and light the torches that burned out during the night. A few darkspawn managed to cross the bridge to the fortress during the ambush and surprise them on the lower floors. FIghting in tight quarters is never easy for mages and after forcing the hurlocks back repeatedly with telekinetic blasts, Dorian’s head starts pounding. He tries to cast when a hurlock gets past Trevelyan and Cassandra but the wave barely shakes pebbles; it certainly doesn’t stop the hurlock from charging.

Desperate, he reaches for the dagger in his belt and then a bolt of fire flies over his shoulder to ignite the darkspawn. He jerks back and turns to see Calpernia’s group of mages and sellswords come down the stairs to join the fight. In a matter of minutes, the darkspawn are all dead.

“Servis told me how the other venture failed but I didn’t expect the viciousness of the darkspawn,” Calpernia says while pushing aside a genlock corpse with her staff. “Something is drawing them to this place.”

“An unsettling thought,” Dorian replies while scraping black blood off his boot and returns to the others.

“You look troubled,” Felix says while checking the contents of his pack. “What did she say?”

“Only that she suspects something is attracting the darkspawn. I don’t think she’s wrong; you heard Trevelyan and you saw what happened last night. If she’s right, what’s bringing them here?”

“An Archdemon?” Felix says. “But it’s too soon, isn’t it?”

“Maker, we don’t need another Blight.”

“Or… they’re reacting to something else that happened here,” Felix muses. “Earlier this morning, when I said I had a dream about the Black City? There was this look on your face, like you knew exactly what I was talking about.”

“Because I dreamed of a golden city. A city with locked gates and voices begging me to set them free.”

“What did they say?”

“They promised to give me everything I ever wanted,” Dorian says. Nobody needs to know how those voices picked at his feelings about his father and the Marcher standing a few feet away. “All I had to do was break the seal.”

“They said they could bring Mother back,” Felix says softly. “That they could make Father happy again so that he’ll let me be.”

“Can’t bring back the dead,” Dorian says, “or convince Alexius to get over what happened. But no need for deals to stop him from smothering you. You’re here, aren’t you?”

“They’re just dreams,” Felix says. “Or echoes of what happened here. Those weren’t actually the Old Gods behind the gates. That wasn’t the actual city.”

“We had the exact same dream right before the ambush; that raises all sorts of questions.” Dorian glances around furtively and notices both Calpernia and Servis watching him. “And I doubt we’re the only ones.”

“So what does this mean?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Dorian says, slinging an arm around Felix’s shoulders. “Which is why we’re going down there to find the answers.”

“Why does that sound familiar….” Felix says while Dorian steers them down the hall. “Oh, right, because the next thing I knew, half the courtyard was on fire and the other half was encased in a time bubble.”

“But I proved it could be done,” Dorian replies. “And I still deeply regret hastening the death of your flower beds and trees, if that’s what you wanted to hear.”

At the bottom of the fortress, they take a right at the fork with the watchful griffon statue while Calpernia’s party goes left. Dorian swears the griffon is watching his every move and shivers at the dread crawling up his spine. 

The chamber he discovered yesterday is rather small and bare except for the wall covered in ancient Tevene. At first glance, he can isolate familiar words and grasp the syntax but words and characters were sanded down by time, leaving gaps in sentences that he knows will bedevil him for weeks.

“Well,” he declares, “since our lovely seeker decided to force my hand, I’ll just have to copy everything down and translate it back in Kirkwall.”

“All of it?” Cassandra says skeptically. “Can you do it in a few hours?”

“With everyone’s help,” he says, nodding at Felix’s pack. “Merrill gave us paper and charcoal. If the script is too difficult to copy, just make a rubbing and note which part of the wall it’s from.”

“You’re killing me here, Sparkler,” Varric grumbles. “Damn archivists.”

Dorian flips through the wrinkled ink-stained pages of his journal, looking for the Tevene he already transcribed and started translating while drinking Backcountry Reserve. He slides left until he finds where he left off and starts copying the etched words. He’s so thoroughly engrossed in the repetitive process that he doesn’t notice the person standing next to him until Trevelyan clears his throat.

“Yes?”

“Something I wanted to ask. About last night,” Trevelyan starts and Dorian feels his face burn. “Not about… that but, um, about the Iron Bull.”

He sighs while turning the page. “If you’re wondering what I, who hails from Tevinter, am doing mingling with a Ben-Hassrath agent, it’s none of your business.”

“No, I know that, but I don’t want to step on any toes,” Trevelyan says. “Am I? The way he was acting-”

“He does that for fun,” Dorian says. He bites his lip; half the word he’s copying is missing and a niggling thought suggests that time didn’t erase it. “Intimidates people and then buys a round. If he likes you, he’ll introduce you to his Chargers and possibly his bed.”

He glances at the Marcher when he gets no response. Trevelyan looks away while transcribing Tevene, cheeks flushed.

“Is that what he was doing?” Trevelyan eventually asks.

“He’d have tried harder if we were at the Hanged Man,” Dorian says. In truth, the Iron Bull didn’t try at all; Dorian has a feeling the Qunari was interrogating Trevelyan on _his_ behalf. “But I do believe he wants you for the Chargers. Doesn’t make that pitch to just anyone.”

“Did he ask you?”

“No, we just argued about the Qun until Corff threw us out eight nights in a row. He invited me to dinner and I ended up in his bed.”

“So, are you….”

Dorian lowers his journal to fix Trevelyan with a look. “No, we are not. Our arrangement just happens to be free of charge, unlike what Madam Lusine demands of me every time I visit the Rose. She thinks I shit gold because I’m a magister. As if it was that simple.”

Trevelyan stares at him. “That’s… an image.”

“I’m quite proficient with diagrams, if you want-”

“Dorian,” Felix calls out. He’s standing at the other end of the wall, staring at something a little above his eye level. “Do you still have that orb with you?”

He reaches into his robes for it. “I do. Why?”

“Right here.” Felix brushes his hand lightly over a line of ancient Tevene. “This is about opening a hidden door. And… a key to that door. Something incredibly old that could affect the… wall between here and a city.”

“What sort of city?” Cassandra asks, frowning at the words she already copied.

“Didn’t that Warden say something about a key?” Trevelyan tells Dorian. “He kept insisting the orb was some sort of key.”

Dorian sets his journal down to unwrap the cloth around the orb. He stares at its swirling carved whorls. “This can tear the Veil? I didn’t sense any magic in it. Did you?”

Felix shakes his head. Cassandra’s eyes narrow while she stares at the orb in Dorian’s hand. “Did you just say that thing can open the Fade?”

“Not one hundred percent certain but perhaps some of these sentences can elaborate. How on earth is this supposed to warp it? Can’t imagine the author not waxing poetic about that kind of power.”

“Please don’t tell me you plan on breaching the Fade right here, right now,” Trevelyan says.

“Nonsense. I may be too curious for my own good but I am most certainly not a fool. I just wish I could make sense of - _kaffas_! Not again!” He stares at the swelling bead of blood on his right index finger and then at the orb lying next to his feet. “Something on this thing keeps stabbing me.”

“Maybe it doesn’t like you fondling it,” Varric suggests.

Dorian glares at him while picking up the orb. He freezes; it thrums in his hand, warm with an unfamiliar old magic. He looks it over but all he sees is a small smear of blood left behind by his finger. Something taps at the back of his mind but he shrugs it off.

“Felix,” he says, “does it say anything else about the key?”

“Well, it… says something about an old magic and then names the Old Gods. Actually, just Dumat. Here… and here… and here… I can’t read this part. But here, it’s talking about sacrifice and life. And that… that’s definitely talking about the Imperium. ‘Those who pledged their… lives to the glory of the Imperium.’”

“Nothing new there.”

“Yeah. And then… I can’t read this. Can you?” Felix beckons Dorian to his side and points to a part of the wall.

He squints at the faded etching. The Tevene is almost impossible to read and he brushes aside hard dirt caking part of the sentence with his right hand.

Magic explodes under his fingertips. He comes to seconds later, lying in a crumpled heap with Trevelyan crouching next to him, staring at the glowing words on the wall - not a wall but a pair of massive stone doors. Cassandra helps a dazed Felix to his feet and elsewhere in the fortress, people are screaming.

Trevelyan is talking to him but his ears ring loudly. He looks around wildly and sees the orb on the ground near his left hand, glowing faintly red. He can’t find his journal.

“... go, now!” Cassandra orders.

“Come on,” Trevelyan says and hauls Dorian up. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“The orb,” he mumbles, stumbling for it. Trevelyan sweeps it up and hands it to him, then grabs a torch and guides him out of the chamber. The others follow, Cassandra supporting Felix and Varric bringing up the rear with an armed Bianca in hand.

They’re nearly stampeded by Calpernia’s mercenaries, fleeing from the left passageway in sheer terror. Some are bleeding from the head, neck, and shoulders, and all are weaponless.

“Run!” one of them howls after shoving Dorian and Trevelyan aside. “The dead are walking!”

“This is so messed up!” another wails. “I didn’t sign up for this!”

There’s no sign of Calpernia, Servis, or any of the Imperial mages. Dorian digs his heels in, forcing Trevelyan to stop. “Calpernia. What of Calpernia?”

The fortress groans above them and something crumbles, boulders crashing into each other and raising plumes of dust. Trevelyan pulls him away. “We can’t go back there.”

“Did my ears deceive me or did someone say the _dead_ are walking?” Varric asks loudly. “Let’s go. Let’s just go. I didn’t sign up for this shit.”

Dorian looks over his shoulder as they run for the stairs; the griffon statue at the fork is on the ground in pieces, shattered by falling stone.

The torches on the walls of the labyrinthine floor had fallen during the violent magic-induced convulsion, forcing them to pick their way by the flickering light of Trevelyan’s torch. Pillars had collapsed and obstructed hallways, forcing them to slow and climb over the rubble. The sellswords keep screaming while fleeing whatever they saw and Dorian almost wishes he could go see for himself; whatever magic triggered when he touched the doors must’ve dragged spirits through the Veil into the bodies in the catacomb. A defense mechanism, perhaps?

If that’s true, then what were the Wardens and dwarves protecting? What convinced them to use such powerful magic?

The fortress shudders and Dorian stumbles into a side hall, which is what saves him when the ceiling suddenly crashes to the floor right where he was standing. He coughs at the dust rising all around him and blinks watery eyes at the enormous pile of rubble now separating him from the others.

“Dorian!” Trevelyan shouts. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. Shit.”

“Maybe if I blast through it-” Felix starts.

“Are you mad?” Cassandra snaps. “You could bring the entire ceiling down on our heads. There must be a way around this. Pavus, what can you see?”

“Absolutely nothing.” He summons veilfire to his hand and holds it up; the greenish glow illuminates a small dark hall that makes an abrupt right, perhaps to rejoin the main hallway elsewhere. “There might be a way out.”

He takes off, ignoring the panic bubbling at the back of his throat. This is certainly not how he wanted his expedition to end, not when he came this far and got so close to finding answers, but he’d rather be alive to return to this fortress than die under a mountain. He sprints down the hall, cursing when he trips and collides with rubble blocking off a room, and enters a small chamber.

And comes to a screeching stop.

Ahead of him, half-hidden in the dark, is someone’s shaking body. It doesn’t look like Calpernia but he still calls her name.

“She - she’s not here,” the person replies weakly. “Don’t let her near. Or else she’ll - she’ll-”

“She’ll what?” Dorian asks, curious, forgetting he needs to go, that others are waiting for him.

A pained sound answers and the person falls to their knees. Dorian steps forward, cautious, one hand holding up his handful of veilfire and the other ready to lash out with a hex. The light slowly reveals one of Calpernia’s Imperial mages, rocking back and forth while murmuring an old prayer to an Old God. Blood runs down his arms in rivulets that drip onto the floor and pool in the grooves between old tiles; his face is mangled, eyes a blackened mess, like he stood too close to a fiery explosion.

“What happened?” Dorian asks, horrified.

“A seal. It was a seal. Nobody could open it. And then… and then….” The mage tries to touch his face and Dorian’s stomach churns at the sight of the bloody stumps reaching for charred eye sockets.

“What seal?”

“The catacomb. It held… she tried to break it. Estoris bled a mercenary dry and nothing would take, until….” The mage stops to draw in a ragged breath and now blood drips from his lips. “She is not who you think she is. She and Erimond. They found the Wardens’ secret and destroyed the last barriers, and now he walks free.”

“What - who? Who’s free?” Dorian demands.

The mage suddenly gasps, a sound like air was forced out of his lungs, and slumps over. A dagger sticks out of his back. Dorian flinches away and looks up at Calpernia, covered in dust and blood and looking very much alive. Her eyes are hard and her smile triumphant as she strides forward, her staff swinging purposefully in her hand.

“I found him,” she declares to no one in particular. 

“Me or this poor fellow you murdered?” Dorian asks while taking a cautious step back. The mage’s warning runs circles in his head: _She is not who you think she is._

“The one who freed you from your thousand-year prison. The one who will help you finish what you started.”

“So… not him, then,” Dorian says, glancing at the dead mage.

She smiles at Dorian - not at him, at something behind him. Dread sinks frigid claws in his chest as he slowly turns around.

His first thought is that it’s an arcane horror but no, the thing staring down at him is not a grotesque animated mage corpse. Its ragged Tevinter robes are old and ornate, the weighty finery of a magister of standing but the kind he saw only in very old private collections. The robes had melted onto its towering malformed body. Its eyes are uncomfortably human, not at all like the frenzied haze of a possessed corpse.

It steps forward, reaching out with a large claw-like hand, and Dorian is rooted to the spot, horrified and terrified.

“ _Where is it?”_ it speaks in a deep, rich dissonant voice. “ _Where is the key, sacrifice?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavily influenced by meta and headcanons about Kirkwall, the Band of Three, and the origins of the First Blight.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: blood, body horror
> 
>  
> 
> Fun story: I originally updated on December 31st but the AO3 clock said it was January 1st. So I modified the publication date to reflect my actual time zone and instead AO3 decided the fourth chapter was posted on December 17th. What the actual fuck. So here I am deleting and reposting the fourth chapter and making this the first fic update of the year instead of the last fic update of the previous year. Welp. After the Halloween fiasco, I'm never doing this again.
> 
> Fun things in this chapter. _Lots_ of fun things, you'll see.

Dorian can count on one hand the number of times he truly feared for his life. The first time was when he was five years old, and it involved a ladder and a book on the highest shelf in the family library.The second was the night he fled home, filled with wretched horror at what his father was suddenly capable of doing.

The third is being trapped in a chamber deep inside an abandoned Warden fortress, standing between an ancient horror and Calpernia while the warm body of a maimed Imperial mage lies bleeding several feet away.

“I… have no idea what you’re talking about,” he finally says. He feels ridiculous for still holding his handful of veilfire up to the creature’s face. “Also, I have a name and it’s definitely not ‘sacrifice’. Honestly, who taught you your manners? Couldn’t even take the few seconds to ask for my house-”

“ _Enough,_ ” the creature says. The Tevene flowing from its cracked lips is a very old form, the kind Dorian read in crumbling texts dating back to Ancient and Divine. “ _Give me the key. It is time to fulfill the promise once made to me. It is time to restore the empire._ ”

“Don’t tell me you mean the Imperium.”

“What other empire is there?” Calpernia asks. “Orlais? After his time and it is only a pale imitation of what we once were, what we can become again.”

Dorian turns to her, then to the creature, and then back to her. “Is that what this was all about? You want to restore Tevinter by ferreting out whatever secrets the Wardens - wait, what did you say? ‘After his time’? You can’t be serious-”

“Yes,” and her eyes burn with such fire. “I suppose Servis was good for something. He didn’t tell your precious little Marcher what _he_ found in the depths of this fortress, did he? You have no idea what ritual was performed here, what happened in these mountains centuries ago.”

“I had my suspicions,” he replies petulantly. “I would’ve found out. Give me two days with the Tevene on those doors, you’ll see.”

“I don’t doubt you, Lord Pavus,” she says. “Now give me the key.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t you want to see the Tevinter that I see? A Tevinter that doesn’t demand our blood for frivolous pursuits of power but rather asks if we can achieve the impossible for the good of the people? The Conductor of Silence will see the Imperium restored and greater than what it once was, what it is now. He will raise Tevinter and those with willing hearts and no voice. But to achieve that, he needs the key and he needs you.”

“I don’t recall agreeing to any of this,” Dorian says. “You’ll have to remind me of the last time I met someone wearing that face.”

“Your blood did,” Calpernia replies. “The sigils will run red and the key will draw from you to breach the Fade. He will enter the city to claim its empty throne and we will rise.”

“That… is a _very_ bad idea. You don’t just stroll into the Fade like it’s your typical Orlesian garden party, not that those were easy to get into in the first place.” He looks at this so-called Conductor. “ _You_ of all people should know that.”

“ _I was deceived by those who promised to save us. And when I demanded answers, all I heard was silence. The throne is empty and I will claim it. I waited a thousand years for this moment. Do not deny me or your exalted role in this,_ ” the Conductor says. His eyes bore into Dorian’s and then flick up at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.

Trevelyan appears at the doorway, covered in dust, a torch in hand and his greatsword in the other. Dorian could fall over from relief; if Trevelyan’s here, then the others aren’t far behind and he has a chance of escaping this nightmare. He glances at the ceiling, noting the cracks in the polished stone, and the distance between him and the doorway. Calpernia stands in between but if he times everything perfectly, she won’t be a problem.

“Dorian! I - what’s going on here?” Trevelyan’s eyes widen at the sight of the Conductor.

“ _Kill the trespasser_ ,” the Conductor says and Calpernia turns on Trevelyan, her staff’s focus stone turning virulent red.

“I think not,” Dorian says and aims a telekinetic blast at the ceiling. It breaks along the deep cracks and falls on the Conductor and Calpernia. Dorian grabs his connection to the Fade and pulls hard; the Fade wraps around him before carrying him across the room into Trevelyan, throwing them both out of the collapsing chamber. The entire floor shudders, walls and pillars and ceiling cracking and toppling over; Dorian casts a barrier and holds it until the shaking stops.

“Maker,” Trevelyan gasps, staring at a chunk of jagged stone held back from crushing his head by the Fade-fueled barrier.

“I _am_ amazing,” Dorian says and expands the barrier, pushing the boulders out of the way. He tries to stand but his knees wobble and he sits down hard. His head swims and black spots his vision, all warning signs that he’s overextending himself.

“Dorian! Are you hurt?” Trevelyan kneels in front of him, hands hovering and uncertain.

“ _Kaffas_. No, I’m fine. Just give me a moment.”

He tenses at the sound of footsteps and Trevelyan turns sharply, sword in hand. They relax when Varric emerges from the hazy shadows, coughing intermittently to clear the clouds of dust from his mouth.

“Andraste’s thighs, Sparkler! What did you do?” Varric demands. There’s a cut on his nose and his hair is almost completely gray from the dust.

“If you must know,” he begins and freezes when the fortress groans. “Maybe later.”

“Agreed. TIme to go,” Trevelyan says and hauls Dorian to his feet.

They follow Varric at a stumbling place, tripping over rubble and ducking toppled pillars. Felix and Cassandra wait anxiously by the stairs, backs against the wall in case the fortress really does start falling apart around them. Felix relaxes upon seeing Dorian; Cassandra is furious.

“What did you do, Pavus?” 

“Not now, not now, not now,” Dorian says, scrambling past her. “I’ll explain once we’re topside.”

“Fantastic idea. Let’s get out of here,” Varric says and pushes the seeker up the stairs when she opens her mouth to yell some more.

Either dwarven craftsmanship or luck keeps the fortress from toppling into the chasm with them inside it. Dorian allows himself a sigh of relief when he finally sees the sky as they climb the last flight of stairs. The griffon and dwarven statues crowning the fortress still stand, watching him run across the narrow bridge with unseeing stone eyes.

A glimmering wall of silver and blue blocks his way out.

“You!” Dorian shouts upon spotting the Orlesian standing at the head of a sizeable Warden army. “I thought you died on that ship.”

With the Orlesian is a mage, an older woman with a shorn head, and another swordsman with an impressive dark beard. The mage frowns skeptically while the Orlesian says, “I didn’t,” before stepping back in deference to her. “This is him.”

“Thank you, Stroud.” She marches up to Dorian with such a severe expression on her face that it puts Cassandra’s to shame. “I am Warden-Commander Clarel of Orlais. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“For what it’s worth, I brought the floor down on his head,” Dorian says. The Warden throws her head back and laughs. “Well that’s reassuring.”

“You think that’ll stop him? You could bury him under the Vimmark and he will claw his way out to return the favor. That was why we held him in that prison. That was why we tried to turn you back on that ship. But you, you wouldn’t stop, and now he is free.”

“He?” Cassandra says, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“An ancient enemy imprisoned in the foundations of the fortress, Seeker,” Clarel replies. “Older than the Blight by virtue of being the one responsible for it.”

Cassandra’s eyes slowly widen. “You can’t be serious.” Clarel says nothing and she turns on Dorian. “What have you done!”

“Look, can we all stop yelling at me for not knowing what was locked up under that fortress? I had my suspicions, of course, but no one told me that one of seven magisters was still alive and that merely touching those doors would free him!”

“Nothing happened when I touched it,” Felix says, staring at his hands.

“You need the key and blood to do that,” the bearded Warden says in a muted Orlesian accent. “The Wardens deliberately erased the details of the ritual and yet you still managed the first steps. I’m almost impressed.”

Dorian opens his mouth to give the Warden a piece of his mind, and then the words sink in.

Something on the orb kept cutting his fingers, smearing blood on its surface and bringing to life whatever magic is embedded in it.

He touched the words with his bloodied hand.

Calpernia said they need his blood to breach the Fade.

“Oh,” he says. “It involves blood magic.”

“I’m glad you finally understand the gravity of the situation,” Clarel says. “While the Wardens have sanction to use everything at our disposal to fight darkspawn, we almost _never_ resort to blood magic. But blood magic was the only magic powerful enough to seal him away and the act required too many Warden lives. Who knows how many more must be given to ensure he never takes a step off these mountains?”

“Then - then let me help you, let me-”

Clarel holds a hand up. “I think you’ve done quite enough. Were it up to me, you’d already be on your way to Weisshaupt to answer to the First Warden, but I can spare no one to escort you. Return to Kirkwall while we try to undo your foolish blunder. Wardens!”

The wall of silver and blue marches past him, crossing the narrow bridge with nary a flinch and entering the fortress. Nobody spares him a glance, leaving him feeling rather insignificant and worsening the heavy guilt in his chest.

“Wait a minute,” Felix suddenly says. “Weren’t they at the Hanged Man?”

One of the Wardens, a blonde elf mage, turns her head sharply and her eyes narrow. “What are you looking at, _shem_?”

The dwarf Warden next to her, the one lurking in the Hanged Man one night a lifetime ago, pushes her forward. “Ignore him. Sooner we finish this up, sooner we get back to Vigil’s….”

Another Warden suddenly breaks rank. He takes off his helm while walking up to Varric, a quirk of a smile on his strong square face.

“Figured you’d be in the thick of this,” he says.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite Warden,” Varric says, clasping the Warden’s arms. “Thought you were in the Anderfels.”

“That was months ago. We came here after hearing about the two Chantries wandering in the Vimmark Mountains. Was hoping to visit you and Hawke afterwards but I guess that’s not going to happen. How’s my sister?”

“Sunshine’s in Montsimmard, studying under one of their senior mages. Called her Madame de Fer? She’s doing fine. Hawke and Broody went to see her weeks ago so it’s just me and your no-good uncle. Now, be honest with me - how badly did Sparkler screw this up?”

“I’m right here, thank you very much,” Dorian mutters, though his heart beats anxiously when the young Warden hesitates and glances across the chasm to the other Wardens entering the fortress with drawn swords, daggers, bows, and staves.

“I only know what Stroud told me. This… magister, he’s like an Archdemon. That’s why darkspawn keep coming here. That’s why we built this place deep in the mountains. Wardens always have eyes here and in Kirkwall, the closest city and the logical starting point for anyone venturing out to the mountains. They knew about you and Hawke. They knew about the Carta base and the Chantries. They knew your Tevinter friend was looking for this place and knew how to get there so they tried to stop him.”

“By threatening to cut his head off?” Trevelyan asks.

“Would’ve gone differently if it weren’t for the other people on the ship,” the young Hawke replies. “Stroud thought a show of force would do the trick. Obviously, it didn’t work like we hoped. These are the reinforcements but I guess they came too late.”

“Do you have to go in there?” Varric asks. “Whatever Sparkler did broke it and I don’t want to explain any of this to Hawke.”

“I’m a Warden, Varric. It’s what we do.” He squeezes Varric’s shoulder and steps back. “Your Qunari friend and his people are waiting at the pass with the horses. And Varric - if you see Merrill, send her my greetings.”

“Maybe _you_ should tell her instead of hiding behind my back. But if I see her, I will,” Varric says. “Be careful, Junior.”

As the last Wardens cross the chasm, Felix says, “Do you know _everyone_ around here, Varric?”

* * *

Nobody talks on the way down to the pass. Wardens patrol it with grim faces and grim words; they’re armed to the teeth but they clutch their weapons tightly, hypervigilant of anything that so much as breathes. At the site of the giant spider nest, Wardens pile spider carcasses and set them ablaze. Dorian’s nose twitches at the acrid stench while passing by.

The Iron Bull and the Chargers are just below the clearing, calming their nervous horses. The Iron Bull greets them with a smile that slowly slides off his face when he realizes something is wrong. Dorian shakes his head and steps aside when the Iron Bull tries to say something.

Trevelyan asks if Servis made it off the fortress.

“Only saw the other sellswords screaming across the bridge. Erimond took off right after that. Didn’t stick around to see if Servis or Calpernia made it out.”

Dorian flinches at her name but nobody notices.

“Coward,” Cassandra says distastefully.

Felix sidles over to Dorian and quietly asks, “How are you holding up?”

“It could be worse,” he replies. “I could be bleeding out on the floor and watching a _darkspawn magister_ walk right back into the Fade. Because if you don’t succeed the first time, let’s try again and end the whole world while you’re at it. Why bother learning from your mistakes?”

“What happened back there?”

“I learned exactly what Calpernia came here to do. She said she wanted to see a new, glorious Tevinter but I didn’t expect that to involve freeing one of the seven magisters that gave us such a terrible name.” He shudders at the memory of the Conductor’s face, the intelligence in his old eyes, the ancient Tevene on his lips. “She said the sigils will run red. The Band of Three speculated that Kirkwall was built based on magical symbols.”

“You think something’s going to happen there,” Felix says. “That’s where this Conductor’s going next. We need to warn the city.”

“I’m not talking another step in the Gallows, but Varric knows the other guard captain. We could tell her,” Dorian says. He looks up at the darkening afternoon sky and the heavy clouds gathering on a rising wind, a sharp contrast to the clear blue morning and bright sun. He shivers and pulls Merrill’s gift tightly around his shoulders. “I can’t believe I did this. I have to fix it.”

“How? We know next to nothing about this magister. We don’t know what ritual he used, how it works, what kept him alive for a thousand years. And we’re not Wardens; we don’t know darkspawn like they do. What can we possibly do?”

“Something. Anything. I started this-”

“I brought you the map. The orb. If I hadn’t-”

“ _I_ insisted on coming here, Felix. If I hadn’t, Calpernia never would’ve gotten as far as she did and I never would’ve set that magister free. But I did so I’m fixing this. I have to.”

True to the Keeper’s words, the five halla graze calmly at the foot of the mountains, blissfully unaware of the gathering storm. They trot over, braying and shaking their heads, and Dorian cracks a smile at the one that comes up to nudge him with its damp nose. Trevelyan and Cassandra retrieve the harnesses and saddles stashed under stunted bushes. Dorian goes to the Iron Bull, who’s mounting a rather hefty packhorse.

“You sure the poor thing won’t drop dead of a broken back halfway across the Marches?” he asks and the Qunari laughs.

“Sata-kas has yet to complain and if she did, I’d feel it,” the Iron Bull says. “She’ll carry me wherever I’m needed.”

“But not Kirkwall.”

“Don’t know. I… need to send a report to my bosses about this,” and for once, the Iron Bull looks unsettled by the prospect of doing his duty. “If what I overheard is true, they won’t sit idly by.”

“They can get in line.” Dorian attempts to pat the mare’s neck but pulls back when she swings her jug of a head around to snort threateningly.

“That depends on whether or not these Wardens contain whatever’s up there,” the Iron Bull says with a pointed look at the clouds shrouding the peaks. “Let’s hope they succeed. Be careful. Stick close to Trevelyan; he’ll keep you safe.”

The Iron Bull and the Chargers leave in a cloud of dust, urging their horses to carry them far from the Vimmarks. Dorian watches them vanish into the distance and then turns around at the sound of approaching footsteps and hoofbeats; Trevelyan walks up to him with two harnessed halla and a troubled expression.

“Fastest way back to Kirkwall is by river. Cassandra has everything she needs so we’re leaving for Val Royeaux the day after.”

“Oh.” His day couldn’t get any worse, could it? “But you saw him. You heard the Warden-Commander.”

“Cassandra thinks she can get permission from the Most Holy to send seekers to Kirkwall if the Wardens fail. One of the original seven who committed the Second Sin? The Chantry will definitely act. Rally Orlais and every city from here to the Korcari Wilds to send help.”

“I’m not doubting that. But by the time Cassandra has her army, it’ll be too late for Kirkwall.” And then, quietly, “For me.”

Trevelyan looks at the others, at Cassandra cursing in Nevarran while trying to harness her halla and Felix helping Varric into the saddle. “You can come with us. Get as far away from Kirkwall as possible.”

Dorian wavers. Could he do that? Flee Kirkwall and leave his city at the mercy of the monster he unleashed? And if the Wardens couldn’t hold the Conductor back? He’ll bleed the city dry and then come for Dorian and the key. He’ll tear apart the world to find them and Dorian’s never been very good at running. 

He reaches into his dusty robes for the orb, feeling it hum under his fingertips. “I caused this. I’m not running away when I can do something about it.”

“But what can you do?”

“I’m an archivist, in case you forgot. There’s a library in Hightown dedicated to the past, filled with old texts from his time that very few people around here can read. The answer must be in one of them.”

“The answer to what?”

“Stopping the Conductor. He was Tevinter once. A magister. Human. There must be something that’ll reveal his weakness, a way to stop his magic. And besides, I have a city to warn.”

Trevelyan looks unconvinced. “You’re not telling me something.”

Dorian glances elsewhere. Should he tell Trevelyan the truth? Should he explain his apparent role in the Conductor’s plan? The Iron Bull’s words run circles in his head - _“He’ll keep you save.”_ \- but if the Wardens are terrified of the Conductor, what chance does a sword-wielding Free Marcher have?

“If I knew what it was, you’ll be the first to know,” he says with a tight smile. “We should go.”

Storm clouds continue to gather over the mountains; by the time they reach a riverside settlement and set the halla free, the sun is gone and people are coming out of their houses and shops with torches and candles, murmuring among themselves while pointing at the storm.

“That looks bad. Real bad,” Varric mutters while they wait for Cassandra and Trevelyan at the rundown docks and its dingy cargo ship. “Junior better play it safe.”

Dorian hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Varric. None of this was supposed to happen.”

“Eh, don’t blame yourself. Nobody knew what was down there. Now what the Wardens should’ve done is nail a bunch of signs everywhere saying ‘Don’t bleed on anything’. Would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble.”

The cargo ship takes a day and night to reach Kirkwall. Dorian spends most of the journey sitting on the crates on the top deck, staring at the gray waters and the overcast sky despondently. His hand brushes against the handle of the sacrificial dagger in his belt and he starts when he can’t find his journal. Where did he - he dropped it somewhere in the fortress. 

Years of notes and one-third of transcribed ancient Tevene, gone. He buries his face in his hands and waves off Felix’s offer of food.

The ship’s cabins had been taken apart to carry more cargo so everyone sleeps on the deck, huddling together for warmth and company. Dorian dozes off sitting up, Felix snoring on his shoulder and Varric’s feet propped up on his lap. He wakes once to an inky sky devoid of moons and stars, the ship’s skeleton crew walking the deck, and Trevelyan and Cassandra talking quietly and tersely across from him.

Then Cassandra says, “Don’t argue this with me, Trevelyan. The Wardens will deal with this threat as they have every threat since the First Blight. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

Trevelyan abruptly stands and walks away, leaving her to huff, fold her arms tightly, and stare off into the distance.

* * *

The cargo ship docks at Kirkwall before noon, though the sky is so dark that it might as well be early evening. Sister Leliana stands on the docks while a dwarf loiters near a tower of shipping crates.

“Great,” Varric sighs upon seeing him. “Better not be from the Merchants’ Guild. As if I have nothing better to do….”

He brushes past Leliana and hauls the dwarf away to talk privately. Leliana looks at him curiously before turning to Cassandra. “Your message arrived this morning. This is troubling news.”

“We never should’ve gone up there,” Cassandra replies flatly. “Trevelyan’s account was satisfactory but you and Pavus-”

“None of us knew what was really up there,” she says before Dorian can get a word in. “But not all is lost. If what you say is true, it’ll change everything we know about the Second Sin. The Most Holy will want to petition Weisshaupt-”

“I’d rather we discuss this in private,” Cassandra interrupts, glancing around the docks. “The last thing we need is for the wrong person to overhear us.”

“Because I’m such a danger to you lot,” Dorian mutters. He’s tired and misses his room above the archive, misses the life he had before Felix came to him with an old Warden map and a carved orb. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the outpost in Hightown, looking for answers to this mess I started. Giant gaudy sign in Tevene near the chantry, can’t miss it.”

“Dorian-”

“Later, Felix,” he says. He shoulders what’s left of his pack, sidesteps the two Hands of the Divine, and nearly trips over Varric and the dwarf.

“Where are you off to?” Varric asks while handing the dwarf a sovereign. “Hawke and Broody are in town and they brought-”

“Not now, Varric,” he says and strides away.

Felix tries to follow but Varric grabs his sleeve. “Need you at the Hanged Man, Kid. You can read….”

Dockworkers, merchants, possible Coterie smugglers, and guardsmen jostle Dorian while he’s climbing the steep steps to Lowtown. Someone nearly knocks him back down the steps and he snaps in Tevene. The burly dockworker turns to him, ready to do more than hurl back insults, and then Trevelyan appears, tapping the man on the shoulder.

“I really wouldn’t,” he says, “unless you want to turn into a toad.”

The man pales and quickly disappears into the crowd. Dorian stares at Trevelyan, who smiles sheepishly up at him and says, “Sorry. Thought you might want company.”

“I… suppose I can use it,” Dorian says, feeling the corner of his mouth curl into a smile. “Have you been to Kirkwall before or was the Rose your first stop?”

“I’ve been to the chantry,” Trevelyan says, joining his side. “And the brothel but nowhere else. Kirkwall may be one of the most powerful cities but my family never had a reason to come here. Think I’ve seen the sign you described, though. It’s a bit… much.”

“Personally, I think the Magisterium purchased the place and sign just to rub it in your Chantry’s face. They can be very petty,” he says and Trevelyan laughs. “Shouldn’t you be with Cassandra and Leliana?”

“They don’t need me right now and I’d rather spend the time with you than in the chantry with Grand Cleric Elthina.”

“Well, I _am_ more handsome and can engage in actual conversation, unlike dear old Elthina and her striking inability to take a stance on anything,” Dorian says. “Though I’ll probably bore you to sleep complaining about the research I was helping Felix with and the general state of the archive when I left. Finding what I need will be a nightmare.”

“I can help. Just tell me what books to get from the top shelf,” Trevelyan says and laughs when Dorian sputters and shoves him.

Hightown usually sees more traffic at this hour but people seem reluctant to do business under the strange dark sky. They hurry along, never lingering after doing business, and cast suspicious glances at the missing sun. They have no idea what’s causing this strange weather, what’s in the mountains just miles from the city, what Dorian did to make any of this happen.

_How do the Wardens live like this?_

“You really think you’ll find the answers in your library?” Trevelyan asks more somberly.

“Consider what we know so far. Wardens may be more efficient at killing your regular darkspawn but anyone can do it. However, only Wardens can slay Archdemons. Wish they explained why that is, _but_ I think I can safely say that the Conductor isn’t an Archdemon.”

Trevelyan nods. “But the Warden-Commander said nothing can kill him.”

“Something will. He was human once and humans aren’t immortal, last I checked,” Dorian says. “Some of the texts in the archive are about spells and binding rituals that haven’t been used in centuries, probably because nobody here reads ancient Tevene and blood magic is not popular. So we’ll have to do without the blood magic - ah, here we are.”

The research post looks indistinguishable from its surroundings when one ignores the large gilded sign written in both Tevene and the common tongue hanging above the door. Dorian crouches to wiggle loose a broken tile for the spare key and unlocks it. A veilfire torch burns brightly in the foyer but the rest of the outpost is dark. Maevaris isn’t here and that suits him just fine; she won’t say, “I told you so,” but her eyes will.

Trevelyan shuts the door and looks at the mountain of books on the bench and the broken statue in a corner of the foyer with a raised eyebrow. “Impressive.”

“You say that now,” Dorian says. He coaxes veilfire from a torch to his hand and shows the way.

The walls are covered with maps and framed scrolls while every available flat surface struggles under the weight of books, scroll cases, and crates of dusty artifacts from all over the Free Marches and Ferelden. The archive’s doors are locked and the hallway to Maevaris’s office and rooms is dark.

Dorian points to the archive. “I earn my pittance of a living in there. Tilani’s office is down the hall and I’m upstairs.”

“You’re not showing me the archives?” Trevelyan asks. He actually sounds disappointed.

“I have a bed. I miss it and would like to reacquaint myself with it for a few hours. Much better than sleeping on a pile of books on the floor between the shelves. Last time, I ruined a stack of letters between two magisters predating the Blight by drooling on them. I’m not proud of it.”

More piles of books and relics await them on the second floor. Many are tagged to be shipped to the Magisterium but there are a few new crates bearing the Amaranthine stamp. From Ostagar, Dorian realizes, recalling the conversation he had with Maevaris a lifetime ago. Their seals are intact; she must be waiting for him to return.

Trevelyan keeps stopping to flip through a book or pick up a relic, asking questions more typical of a university researcher than a Chantry sellsword. Dorian wonders who Trevelyan really is and what he’s thinking bringing the Marcher here.

Dorian’s room is exactly the way he left it: cluttered. Dusty trinkets from the Hightown market stalls line the equally dusty windowsill; his desk and dresser are both buried under paper, books, yellowing scrolls, and all sorts of ancient Tevinter and Planasene relics. His bed, though made, is hidden under discarded clothing and even more books, and the same goes for the floor. He transfers his handful of veilfire to a wall-mounted torch and lights the lone candle on his desk, positioned well away from anything flammable because he may be a fool who freed a darkspawn magister but he’s not _that_ much of a fool.

“I’m almost surprised you don’t keep a neater room,” Trevelyan admits, looking around while leaning his greatsword gingerly against the wall.

“Have you met me, serah? Or any archivist, for that matter? The only thing worth maintaining on a constant basis is the archive. Everything else is optional, minus my face of course.”

“I said ‘almost’,” Trevelyan says wryly. “Mind if I look around?”

“Hardly anything you can do to make things worse than they are,” he says and shoves some books aside with his foot, inadvertently shutting the door.

Trevelyan carefully steps around the papers and books on the floor to study the objects on the shelves. There’s something oddly comfortable and intimate about his presence in Dorian’s private space, and the thought makes Dorian uncomfortable. He distracts himself by pulling out Dumat’s dagger and studying the Tevene etched into the rusted metal. The dagger would make a fine addition to the archives and he imagines his lengthy report on its origins, the location of its discovery, its likely purpose.

No doubt it’ll cause an uproar at the Magisterium. He smiles at the thought.

“What’s this?” Trevelyan asks.

Dorian sets the dagger on his cluttered bedside table and looks up to see Trevelyan holding a small wooden box with gilded edges. The candlelight glimmers on the golden snakes on the lid.

“Something from home,” he says. “Used to hold a family heirloom. It looks just like the snakes on the lid but on a chain and embedded with old gems.”

“Do you still have it?” Trevelyan asks while studying the decorated lid.

Of course he’d ask. Dorian rubs his forehead tiredly. “No. I… lost it to an Orlesian merchant over an ill-advised game of Wicked Grace. It was several years ago and most of my off-hours were spent drinking and making terrible decisions. I try not to think about it.”

“Were you able to get it back?”

He shakes his head. “Tilani offered to pay for it but he refused. Said it was worth more to him than all the sovereigns we could offer, which wasn’t much. The life of a Magisterium archivist is not as glamorous as I make it out to be, I’m afraid.”

“So you’ve said. What’s his name?” Trevelyan asks.

“Ponchard, I believe. Ponchard de… something pretentiously Orlesian. Why the questions?”

Trevelyan shrugs and sets the box down. “Well, I _am_ leaving for Val Royeaux tomorrow. I can find him and get it back for you if he still has it.”

Dorian stares until he realizes the Marcher is serious, and then he stares some more. “That’s - that’s completely unnecessary. It’s been years and that life’s behind me now. I don’t need it anymore, I wouldn’t bother.” He doesn’t sound convincing even to himself. “Far more important things to worry about than the whereabouts of an old trinket.”

Like the orb nestled in his robes. He pulls it out and frowns at its faint greenish glow. It must be reacting to the veilfire torch, though he doubts it can punch a hole in the Veil on its own. He turns it over in his hands, feeling the whorls on its surface, the magic humming within it.

“Dorian.”

“I said I don’t need your help getting it back, not that I even want it-”

Trevelyan takes the orb out of his hands and sets it down on the bedside table. He stares at it and then at the Marcher, wondering how Trevelyan crossed the room without tripping over the books.

“Dorian,” he says again in a softer voice.

Dorian is suddenly aware of the silence in the building, the footsteps and banter outside the window, Trevelyan’s unsteady breathing, the heartbeat in his head. They’re alone in his room and that - that’s - his mind stumbles when Trevelyan touches his face, lightly and carefully, gloved fingertips trailing fire in their wake.

“You said I owe you,” Trevelyan says, gray eyes illuminated by the veilfire. “A proper kiss, I think. Is that all right?”

“Well, you won’t hear me complaining,” Dorian says immediately and Trevelyan laughs before kissing him.

It’s far, far better than the first time. Dorian grabs the front of Trevelyan’s leather coat and pulls the Marcher in to deepen the kiss. There’s a huff of laughter against his wet lips and Dorian swallows that sound with another kiss, a hungry one that makes his blood sing. He nudges Trevelyan towards his bed, step by step, treading on books and clothes; Trevelyan stumbles into the bed and sits down, giving Dorian the opportunity to climb into his lap and continue kissing him.

“You’re very demanding,” Trevelyan murmurs between kisses, shedding his leather gloves and silverite vambraces.

“I’m not a nice man, if you haven’t already noticed,” Dorian says, nosing at the scars marking Trevelyan’s face and neck. He loosens the knot on Trevelyan’s weatherworn sash and pushes the leather coat off his broad shoulders.

“You don’t say,” Trevelyan replies dryly. He slides a hand down Dorian’s back and squeezes, smiling cheekily when Dorian jumps.

“And you’re something else.” Dorian finally manages to unbuckle the dinged metal breastplate and its all-seeing Southern Chantry eye and tosses it aside. It crashes into a stack of books and Trevelyan raises an eyebrow. “They’re just books.”

“You are a terrible archivist.”

“I’m a fantastic archivist, serah,” he retorts. “But not today.”

He kisses Trevelyan deeply, reveling in the low moan at the back of the Marcher’s throat and the fingers curling against his back. Dorian pushes him down on the bed, nose twitching at the musty smell rising from the sheets, but Trevelyan doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he pulls at Dorian’s robes and the cinches holding them in place; Dorian tugs the fabric free while kicking off his dusty boots and resumes kissing the man senseless. 

“Think that was a proper kiss,” Trevelyan eventually says, breathing hard and flushing an alluring red, “or twenty. Anything else I owe you?”

He places cautious hands on Dorian’s thighs and a shiver runs along Dorian’s back, the kind that’s followed by a terrible, aching want. Dorian cups Trevelyan’s face, pressing his thumb lightly on a deep scar running over Trevelyan’s lower lip. His heart might burst at the quick huff of wet air against his thumb and the contented smile on Trevelyan’s face.

“Didn’t know I had to spell it out for you,” Dorian murmurs and kisses him again.

* * *

Maevaris has the courtesy to knock, thank every god and revered individual from here to Seheron.

“Dorian,” she says tersely. “We need to talk. Now.”

He groans and burrows under his lump of a pillow, trying to return to his dreams of a golden city under a river of light. Maevaris knocks again and Trevelyan whines while pressing his face into Dorian’s left shoulder.

“Dorian Pavus of Qarinus, I have some very important, very anxious, and _very_ dangerous people in my office asking for you. Don’t make me burn your door down - Merrill, dear, please put that back. It hasn’t been properly tagged yet.”

Merrill? The voice responding apologetically is definitely hers. What is the Dalish mage doing in Hightown and how does Maevaris know her? He quickly sits up and nearly falls out of bed searching for his clothes. Trevelyan is already strapping his armor on, looking as confused as Dorian feels.

“Don’t you even think about destroying my beautiful door, Tilani,” Dorian says loudly while tossing Trevelyan his leather overcoat and sweeping up the green and gold robes. He grabs the orb and tucks it into the folds before cinching leather straps into place. “And how do you know Merrill?”

“That’s why we need to talk. And bring the Marcher. They want to see him, too.”

Merrill is standing outside Dorian’s room, admiring an old cracked ritual bowl. She quickly sets it down and beams at them, her leggings and cloak dusty from travel.

“You’re still wearing my robes,” she says happily, reaching over to straighten out the folds and touch the golden embroidery on his left shoulder.

“It’s an excellent gift, Merrill. One doesn’t keep it hidden from the world.”

“I know, aren’t they lovely?” she says with a dreamy smile. Then she shakes her head, snapping herself out of reverie. “Oh. Right. They’re waiting downstairs. Do you have the key?”

“You know what it is?” Trevelyan asks.

“I do and more, which is why I’m here.” She waves them to follow her downstairs to Maevaris’s office. She hangs back, letting Trevelyan go ahead, and then looks slyly at Dorian. “No more sad puppy eyes.”

“First of all, there were never any ‘sad puppy eyes’. Secondly, I know.” He leans in. “Rather strapping fellow, isn’t he?”

She nods. “Reminds me of Carver. He’s Hawke’s younger brother and a Warden.”

“Yes, I believe we met the other day. Has a chin that can kill people,” he says and she giggles.

Trevelyan’s face is red when they enter Maevaris’s office and then it pales at the sight of the two Wardens and the Keeper of Merrill’s clan standing at her desk. Dorian stares at Maevaris, who’s sitting calmly behind it with a map of Kirkwall under her elbows, and then at Clarel and Stroud.

“You - what are you doing here? How did you get here? And what are _you_ doing here?” He quickly adopts a respectful tone when the Keeper looks at him sternly. “That is, Keeper, how do you know Tilani? And these Wardens?”

“Shut the door, dear,” Maevaris tells Merrill.

Clarel looks deeply unimpressed with everyone and everything. Her face is stained with sweat and dust, and he suspects the dark splotches on her clothes are blood. Darkspawn? Warden?

“We flew here,” she says dryly. “Where is the key?”

He reaches into his robes and pulls out the orb. The Keeper steps forward, eyes on its glowing form. She raises a hand to it but doesn’t touch.

“Creators,” she murmurs. “How did you activate it?”

“I… may have bled on it. Twice. Blighted thing has a sharp edge somewhere. But I can’t explain the magic.”

“That’s because your blood also touched the doors to the ritual site you were so eager to find,” Clarel says. “The magisters enchanted them with blood magic to keep out all but the ones who knew the its secrets and their plan. Blood magic bound them to the power of the orb, just as you are now.”

“Is that what you weren’t telling me?” Trevelyan asks. “I heard Calpernia. She said something about sigils and your blood and the Fade, but I thought it was over when you killed that thing.”

“She did her research,” Maevaris says. “I’d be impressed if she wasn’t using it to end the world.”

“Which is why we’re here,” Stroud says. He looks as battered and tired as Clarel does though he still holds his head high. “We could not hold him back. A few Wardens escaped but they are injured and cannot fight. He is summoning darkspawn from under the mountains to march on Kirkwall. He is coming for you and the key.”

“He cannot use one without the other,” the Keeper says. “We must separate them. Merrill and I will take the key. It is a relic of Elvhenan and it is only right that we protect it until the threat is over.”

“You - you’re talking about Arlathan. This is from Arlathan.” Dorian stares at the orb and its seamless swirling whorls, the barely visible patches of dried blood on its surface. “I - I _bled_ on it. Contaminated it with my blood. Dropped it here and there countless times. Treated it worse than anything that passed through the archive when this is _centuries_ older than anything we have. I had no idea-”

“Dorian,” Maevaris says. The wrinkles in the corners of her eyes and on her forehead are deeper than he remembers. “Clarel believes it will be best that you leave with her and Stroud immediately.”

He almost drops the orb. “Why?”

“Keeper Marethari is right. We must separate you, forcing the Conductor to divide his attention,” Stroud says. “That’ll give us a chance to weaken and drive him back into the mountains. Once he is imprisoned, you will be free to return to Kirkwall.”

“Until then, you will be on the move with the Wardens,” Clarel says. “You will not have contact with anyone and only a few Wardens will know where you are. The fewer who know your whereabouts the better; we can’t risk the Conductor’s agents finding you.”

“I….” No smart retort comes to mind. He looks helplessly at Maevaris and then at Trevelyan, and his heart sinks at the despair in the Marcher’s face. And what of Felix? Varric? The Iron Bull and all the familiar faces of Kirkwall? “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“I’m sorry,” Maevaris says. “I hoped when I burned that map that you’d leave it alone but you went and found another way. I told the Wardens thinking they could convince-”

“You knew the entire time,” Dorian says angrily. “You knew what was up there. What I was walking into.”

“She swore an oath of secrecy. Even if she wanted to, she could not say a word,” Clarel says. “She told us the details of the ritual, which words to erase from the doors. Should’ve known that our countermeasures wouldn’t stop her associate.”

“Or you could’ve put up a sign warning people not to bleed on things,” Dorian mutters, echoing Varric. “And Merrill? Her clan’s Keeper? What do they have to do with this?”

“Keeper Marethari is the leader of one of several Dalish clans assisting us. There is a long-standing agreement that, should we find the key and a permanent solution to the Conductor, it’ll be given back to the clans.”

“And Merrill is my first,” the Keeper says. “She knows everything I know since she will eventually assume my responsibilities.”

“I am so sorry,” Merrill says, eyes downcast. She wrings her hands anxiously. “I knew where you were going but I couldn’t say anything. If I knew you also had the key, I might’ve….”

“If someone _told_ me instead of clinging to secrecy and threatening to murder me over it, none of this would’ve happened,” Dorian snaps. He holds the orb out to her. “You should go. Get a head start. The Conductor can’t turn this city into a bloodbath and destroy the world.”

“A bloodbath? Do you know his plans?” Clarel asks while Merrill carefully takes the orb and cradles it in her hands.

“Tilani didn’t tell you? I went up there to confirm a theory about Kirkwall’s bloody history,” Dorian says. “A band of three people believed Kirkwall was built according to magical sigils and that their sewer system had less to do with keeping the city clean and more to do with collecting fluids. Add the yearly explained disappearances of _hundreds_ of slaves and one could reasonably conclude that people were using this city as a receptacle for those hundreds of blood sacrifices. And the ritual site? Close enough to Kirkwall that a powerful magister or several could draw on its power for their ritual.”

“Like entering the Fade,” Maevaris says. “And now he’s coming here.”

“Then we need to move,” Clarel declares. “Marethari?”

The Keeper nods gravely and gestures to Merrill while drawing her dark green cloak around her slender shoulders. “TIme to go, _da’len_.”

“ _Dareth shiral_ , Dorian,” Merrill says. She tucks the orb away and pulls the hood of her dusty cloak over her head while following the Keeper out of the office.

“Stroud,” Clarel says. “Make sure the way is clear. Keep an eye out for Erimond.”

“Didn’t he run away?” Trevelyan asks.

“His trail went south towards Kirkwall,” Clarel replies. “He’s either a fool or planning something. Gather your things, Pavus, but bring only what you need. You’re traveling light.”

“And don't forget your staff,” Maevaris says as he leaves the office. “You’ll need it.”

Trevelyan follows him upstairs, a silent presence that makes his skin crawl in the worst way. The memory of what they did just hours ago, the hushed words that promised the kind of love Dorian had given up on, is already fading. He wonders what Trevelyan thinks now, what kind of Chantry-dictated life he’ll return to, if Dorian will become a mere encounter-

Three steps into his room and Trevelyan backs him into the wall, kissing him hard and cradling his face with trembling hands like he’s afraid Dorian will vanish into thin air.

“I shouldn’t have,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have taken you there. I’m so sorry.”

“I wanted to go. I demanded it,” Dorian says. “And I cursed you out for thinking you wouldn’t help me.”

“You were persistent,” Trevelyan says, smiling fondly. “I should thank you for not hexing me.”

“Like I was actually going to do it,” Dorian mutters, though he really wanted to at the time. Several times, now that he thinks about it. “And here we are.”

“Here we are,” Trevelyan says softly.

Dorian can’t stand seeing the anguish on his face and kisses him, dragging him close by the collar of his coat. They’re breathless when they pull apart and Dorian fumbles with words to say.

“You should pack,” Trevelyan says for him.

Clarel’s words echo in his head while he darts around his cluttered room, pulling clothes from piles and corners, and forcibly stopping himself from grabbing a book or two. He laments the loss of his journal and grabs a blank one from his desk to start anew. A tin of perfumed solid oil is swiped from his desk because he may be on the run from an ancient darkspawn magister with designs on the Fade, but he won’t do so looking less than his best. He adds a bronze mirror because it’s a gift from Felix and Varric will find it hilarious. He hesitates when he sees the old wooden box, his one memory of home, and picks it up.

“After I leave, take this with you,” he tells Trevelyan. “Keep it safe.”

“Dorian,” Trevelyan says hesitantly. 

“I’m serious. If I don’t come back, just... use it for yourself. I don’t want it gathering dust here or shipped back to Qarinus. Please.”

After a moment, Trevelyan nods. “All right.”

Dorian’s staff, a gift from Maevaris two years ago, leans against the wall in a cluttered corner; he picks it up and then spots Dumat’s dagger on the bedside table. He considers it and then tucks it into his belt before heading downstairs, Trevelyan following close behind. Maevaris and Clarel are waiting in the foyer, lost in their thoughts, but Maevaris turns as soon as he approaches. She smiles tightly and embraces him.

“I’m sorry it came to this, my dear,” she says. “I’ll keep your room as is until you return.”

“Thank you,” he says, though they both know he’s not just talking about his home for the past several years. “Try not to piss off the Magisterium while I’m gone. I’d hate to miss the fireworks.”

“I make no promises,” she says solemnly, eyes twinkling as she steps back.

“Time to go, Pavus,” Clarel calls out while strapping her staff to her back. “A ship is waiting for us and we cannot delay.”

* * *

Something is wrong.

Guardsmen hurry through the streets, armed and armored from head to toe, while residents rush for the Keep, the chantry, and the upper levels of Hightown. The sky is pitch-black and a foul wind is blowing, carrying the sound of battle to his ears. Dorian glances at Clarel, who takes out her staff and gestures for the others to stay behind her. She whirls around at the sound of approaching footsteps; Cassandra and Leliana run to them, both heavily armored; Cassandra keeps her left hand on her sword hilt while Leliana carries an ornate longbow, a quiver, and a pair of daggers.

“There you are!” Cassandra says to Trevelyan. She stops short at the sight of Clarel. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Escorting Pavus out of the city,” Clarel replies.

“That will be difficult,” Leliana says. “A guardsman came to the chantry just minutes ago, saying a force is marching on the city. Darkspawn, hundreds of them, numbers unlike any seen since the Fifth Blight. They’re already at the docks and coming up through Lowtown. No one’s heard from the Gallows or Guard Captain Meredith since then. Guard Captain Aveline is rallying the Keep and barricading the stairs but they’re also the only way out of Hightown.”

“Then we’re too late,” Maevaris says.

“Not if I can help it,” Clarel says fiercely. “The bulk of them should still be outside the city. Once we leave, so will they. We fight our way to the docks, Pavus. I hope you’re as formidable a mage as Maevaris claims you to be.”

“Why would you ever question my abilities?” Dorian scoffs, though his heart hammers at the news. How did they reach Kirkwall so quickly? Is the Conductor here?

“I’m coming with you,” Trevelyan declares, unslinging his greatsword. “To the docks, at least.”

Maevaris locks and wards the outpost. “I’d better offer my help. The Keep has so few mages among them and even fewer who saw combat. They could stand to watch and learn from a magister.”

People stream up from Lowtown and the docks to the fortified safety of Hightown, crowding the streets. But one glance at the griffon emblem on Clarel’s armor and the Southern Chantry eye on Cassandra’s shield, and people step aside to let them pass unhindered to the marketplace. In the lower courtyard, guardsmen push crates and pieces of market stalls into position, creating a makeshift barricade against whatever might come up from Lowtown.

Guard Captain Aveline is standing off to the side, arguing with an elf in shabby robes who’s clutching an equally shabby staff. The redheaded Ferelden immigrant and one of the city’s most respected figures turns sharp eyes on them while the elf steps back.

“Stop right there. All civilians must return to their homes, the Keep, or the chantry,” she says. “I will not repeat myself-”

“I am Warden-Commander Clarel of Orlais,” Clarel announces loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. Whispers erupt among the ranks and even the elf mage watches curiously. “I need to reach the docks and your men are in the way.”

“My men are protecting the people. They are most certainly not ‘in the way’,” Aveline retorts. “And if you’re a Grey Warden, then you must know something about that darkspawn horde.”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you-”

“You do if your presence puts everybody else in danger!” Aveline snaps, drawing up to her full formidable height.

Clarel is unmoved. “If you let me pass, I will draw them away from Kirkwall. If you don’t, they will not leave until they have what they came for.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

“ _That_ is none of your business. I am the Warden-Commander; my word is enough.”

“Captain Aveline,” Maevaris says, stepping forward, and the guard captain relaxes minutely.

“Magister Tilani,” she says with a respectful nod. “Is what the Warden-Commander said true?”

Maevaris nods and that’s enough for the guard captain. Aveline beckons to one of the guardsmen. “Donnic, let them through.”

“Yes, love. I mean, Captain.” He turns to order others to dismantle part of the barricade.

“I may be a civilian here, Captain,” Maevaris says, “but I am also a magister with some experience fighting darkspawn. If you’ll let me, I can assist your men with the defences.”

“All right,” Aveline says decisively. “I have a few mages stationed at the Red Lantern District and near the chantry. Help them and then return here.” She then looks at Dorian. “You’re Dorian, right? If you see Varric on the way to the docks, tell him to get his ass up here. I won’t be the one explaining this to Hawke. And _you_ ,” she says, pointing at the elf, “will do as I say and go to the Keep.”

“And I told you, Guard Captain, I am quite capable of assisting the city guard,” the elf mage replies patiently. “If you accept aid from a Tevinter magister, then-”

“I know her. I know nothing about you,” Aveline says.

“You’re not with Merrill and Keeper Marethari?” Dorian asks. “They already left.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know who they are,” the elf says. “I came here on my own. The timing was simply… unfortunate. But I offer my assistance. Please consider it.”

“You’ll want all the help you can find tonight, Guard Captain,” Clarel advises. “I would if I were you.”

Aveline sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Very well. And if you’re leaving, Warden-Commander, you’ll do it now while the stairs are clear of darkspawn.” Then, quietly, “Maker, wasn’t Lothering enough? They had to come here, too?”

Dorian looks over his shoulder while following Clarel through the small break in the barricade. Maevaris waves to him before turning to Aveline and the elf mage, and then the guardsmen seal the barricade, locking him out of Hightown and home.

“Quickly,” Clarel says, hurrying down the steps to Lowtown.

Screaming and the gruesome wet sounds of metal on flesh echo up the stairwell. They become louder closer to the Lowtown marketplace and Leliana notches an arrow.

“Maker,” Cassandra breathes at the sight of darkspawn crawling all over Lowtown.

Five guardsmen are putting up a brave fight but they’re outmatched and one falls before Dorian could throw out a barrier to shield them. The other guardsmen turn, startled, and Leliana lets an arrow fly, stopping a genlock in its tracks. The other darkspawn are blown off their feet by Clarel’s barrage of spells, and Trevelyan and Cassandra charge in to finish them off.

More darkspawn climb the stairs from the marketplace’s lower level but they have the high ground. A particularly menacing hurlock emissary storms up the steps and Dorian takes aim, hexing it with corrosive energy. He waits until other darkspawn join it at the top of the stairs and then detonates the hex with such force that it also takes out the other darkspawn.

“That’s impressive,” Trevelyan says faintly.

“There’s more where that came from,” Dorian replies and sets the last darkspawn in the marketplace on fire with a dramatic gesture.

Cassandra groans while kicking dead darkspawn aside and Leliana shakes her head before directing the four shaken guardsmen back to Hightown.

They climb the stairs out of the marketplace to find the Hanged Man on fire, doors torn off their hinges and its patrons brawling with the darkspawn inside and around the building. The Iron Bull is in the midst of the chaos, shouting in riotous Qunlat while plowing through the darkspawn with his greataxe. The Chargers are scattered, fighting alongside Corff the bartender and Isabela, the former captain of the Siren’s Call II. Isabela spots them and hails Cassandra, who sighs and wades into the fray with Leliana close behind.

A hurlock stumbles out of the Hanged Man to land at Clarel’s feet and she stabs it in the neck with her staff blade. Felix runs out after it, hands glowing, and freezes upon seeing Dorian. Varric follows close behind, loading Biana with a bolt, and with him is a young dark-haired mage.

“... were right. The redirection did clear the area and pull the residual energy towards me to create a barrier,” the mage says excitedly. She bears a striking resemblance to the Warden Hawke. “Not a very strong one, but-”

“Maker’s breath, you two need to get a room,” Varric grumbles while cranking his crossbow. He does a double take upon seeing Clarel. “Well, shit. If you’re here….”

“Dorian?” Felix glances between him and Clarel. “What’s going on? Why is she here? Did they - did they fail?”

“Yes, we failed,” Clarel says coolly. “I am escorting Pavus out of the city and you can either help us clear the way or go to Hightown.”

“What? Where are you taking him?” Felix demands. 

“She can’t say,” Dorian says. The words taste bitter and dry, and he swallows hard before continuing. “The Conductor is coming for me. That’s why the darkspawn are here. I leave and so do they.”

He waits for Felix to connect the dots, Seconds later, Felix’s eyes widen. “Blood magic. Whatever he’s trying to do, he can’t do it without you and that orb. Wait. What about-”

“Merrill has it. Felix, it’s a relic of _Arlathan_. It’s older than the Imperium,” Dorian says, allowing himself a small smile at Felix’s stunned expression. “Imagine that.”

“What does Merrill have to do with this?” the mage Hawke asks suspiciously.

“Had no idea she was even here,” Varric says. “Sounds like you need to find Hawke and Broody, and get out of here before shit gets worse.”

“They’re at Gamlen’s. We’ll be in Hightown, Varric. Be careful and come back,” she says and embraces him. She flashes Felix a smile before leaving, darting around Cassandra and Leliana to disappear around the corner.

“The way is clear,” Cassandra declares. Her sword and shield are splattered with black blood. “Guard Captain Meredith is alive. She and her men are holding one of the passageways to the docks but not for much longer. Once they retreat, Lowtown will be crawling with darkspawn. If you’re leaving, you’re leaving _now_ , Warden-Commander.”

“I’m coming with you,” Felix says immediately.

“Only as far as the docks,” Dorian replies. He holds his hand up when Felix tries to protest. “The Conductor wants _me_ , not you. I’m not putting you in more danger. What I need is for you to go back to Minrathous. Tell Alexius about Erimond. He didn’t do this alone and the Magisterium needs to stop the others.”

Felix searches his face and finally nods. “All right. Just to the docks.”

“Guess I should come, too,” Varric says with a deep sigh. “Had a hand in this mess and I know Kirkwall better than all of you.”

“Then let’s go,” Clarel says, striding past.

Leliana stays behind to help the civilians and keep straggling darkspawn off their backs. As they go downstairs to the lower levels of Lowtown, she calls out, “Good luck, Dorian. Maker watch over you.”

* * *

“So,” Guard Captain Meredith says slowly, blue eyes flicking from Dorian to Trevelyan to Felix to Cassandra and back to Dorian. “I let the Right Hand of the Most Holy remove that vagrant from my custody and this is what happens. Darkspawn are invading Kirkwall and all of you had a hand in it.”

“For the record-” Dorian starts but Clarel holds up her hand.

“If you claim to act in the best interest of your city, then you will let us pass,” the Warden-Commander says. “Once we leave, so will they.”

The guard captain considers them for a painfully long moment, and then turns to Captain Cullen. “Let them through. Then close the barricade and retreat to Hightown.”

A long crooked chain of stairwells connect Lowtown and the docks. Bodies, darkspawn and Kirkwaller, lie on the steps and small landings, bleeding black and red. Varric shakes his head while passing by, muttering that even the carnage from the Qunari invasion several years ago doesn’t compare. Dorian’s stomach churns when he recognizes Samson among the dead; the former guardsman is holding a broken sword in his limp hands.

Felix turns paler and paler with every flight of stairs until he staggers to a corner and tries not to vomit. Dorian waits, knowing he’s reliving memories of the road to Hossberg. Felix breathes deeply to collect himself, smiles tightly at Dorian, and continues down the stairs. He stares at his feet to ignore the dead darkspawn.

“What were you doing at the Hanged Man?” Dorian asks quietly.

“Varric asked me to translate my copy of the Tevene in that chamber, see if it had information about the orb or the ritual. But these magisters, they wouldn’t care about reversing the spell. They only care about breaching the Fade.”

“I know,” Dorian sighs.

A flight of stairs later, he says, “That wasn’t the only thing you were doing.”

“What are you suggesting?” Felix furrows his eyebrows and then his face reddens. “You mean Bethany? Well, Varric knows her. She came in looking for him and learned I’m from Minrathous. We were comparing techniques when the darkspawn attacked.”

At the last flights of stairs, they hear the violent cacophony of battle echoing upwards, They cautiously move down the steps until the docks and Stroud come into view; he and a handful of Gallows guardsmen are pinned against the towering statue of the Champion of Kirkwall by darkspawn. With a cry, Clarel leaps down the stairs and uses her magic to sling her past the darkspawn to Stroud’s side, freezing them in her wake. The guardsmen startle at her entrance and then shrink away when she swings her staff around to send genlocks and hurlocks flying.

Cassandra charges after Clarel, bashing darkspawn with her shield and plowing a path to the Wardens. Varric follows her, cursing to himself while picking off the shrieks trying to flank her. Felix clasps a hand on Dorian’s shoulder and hops down the steps to join the dwarf, leaving Dorian with Trevelyan for a moment longer.

“Trevelyan,” Dorian says quietly and leans in for a kiss when Trevelyan turns to him. There’s a bitter smile on Trevelyan’s face when they pull apart and Dorian decides not to dwell on it until after he’s on a ship out of the harbor.

The guardsmen fighting alongside Clarel and Stroud must’ve been separated from Guard Captain Meredith and Captain Cullen during the initial assault. One of them scowls mightily upon seeing Dorian, Trevelyan, and Felix.

“You!” the prison warden shouts. “What are you doing here?”

“Fighting darkspawn, same as you,” Felix replies while knocking a burning genlock into the harbor. “Unless you have a problem with us mages helping you save Kirkwall.”

“Unbelievable,” another guardsman mutters.

“If you have a problem with the Warden-Commander,” Stroud says, “then you can fend off the darkspawn by yourselves.”

The guardsmen glance at each other and Paxley meekly says, “No, messere. We have no problems. Not a one.”

Trevelyan smiles rather vindictively while gutting a hurlock and kicking it into the water. The next one he attacks stumbles into Dorian’s line of fire and Dorian hexes it. The darkspawn claws at itself, screaming in agony, and runs back to its brethren. With a gesture, Dorian detonates the hex and the hurlock explodes.

“Clarel,” Stroud calls out, “the ship is ready. Take Tevinter and go. I’ll meet you-”

A scorching wind sweeps through the streets, followed by a blinding firestorm. Dorian, Felix, and Clarel quickly raise barriers while others run for cover. The maelstrom floods the docks, scorching stone and incinerating everything else in its path. Someone screams and the fire drowns them out with a roar. Darkspawn try to flee but the flames catch them; their burning bodies fall to the ground next to the dead guardsmen.

The storm dies and Dorian drops the barrier. He rubs sweat out of his eyes and squints at the approaching person. It’s Erimond, wielding an ornate staff and a sneer on his insufferable face.

“You’re not taking him anywhere, Wardens,” he declares. “Hand him over and I may consider letting the rest of you live.”

“Oh Maker,” Paxley says faintly. “A magister. And he - he killed….”

“Aren’t I worth at least a guarantee?” Dorian asks. He steps forward and the ground rolls under his feet. He staggers and Erimond’s smile widens. “Thought you ran off with your tail tucked between your legs at the first sign of trouble.”

“Me, run? I returned to Kirkwall to prepare. Who do you think found the original plans for Emerius? Who discovered the sigils formed by the city’s very foundation? Who do you think made it so easy for the darkspawn to enter Emerius? Who do you think cleared the way for my master to make his triumphant return to the Black City?”

“Then we will stop you,” Clarel announces, pointing a trembling finger at the magister. “Your master will not succeed. I’ll see to it myself.”

“Oh please. You can hardly stand on your own two feet, let alone defend yourself against this.”

Erimond swings his staff forward, volleying lightning at the Warden-Commander; she deflects the first assault but the second throws her into the statue with a large crack.

“And the rest of you,” Erimond says, pointing his staff at Stroud, Trevelyan, and the others, “wouldn’t stand a chance against a magister-”

He stumbles back from Felix’s telekinetic blast. Dorian follows with a sweeping wall of fire, driving Erimond to the edge of the docks. Erimond shrugs off Dorian’s hex and slices his palm on his staff blade. Blood drips through clenched fingers and Erimond’s spell throws Felix clear across the courtyard into the side of a warehouse. Dorian tries to run to him but his body seizes up after a single step. He falls to his knees and chokes on a pained cry while his blood burns under his skin. 

Erimond walks up to him, hand still dripping red. Varric tries to load Bianca but Erimond’s staff twitches ever so slightly and the dwarf drops his crossbow with a swear.

“Do you know how much I despise using my own blood?” Erimond says, crouching next to Dorian. “But my master doesn’t want a drop of yours to spill, and I will do what he asks of me. Fight me and I will do the same to your friends. I’ll boil their blood until there’s nothing left, starting with that uncultured Marcher-”

Dorian grits his teeth and smashes his head against Erimond’s jaw, sending the magister tumbling over the hot dry ground. Erimond’s hold on him loosens just enough and Dorian nullifies the magic around them. The spell severs his connection to the Fade for a few agonizing seconds but it’s enough time for Varric to fire a crossbow bolt into Erimond’s left shoulder. Trevelyan’s dagger sinks into Erimond’s back and the magister falls to the ground.

Trevelyan runs to Dorian’s side and helps him to his feet. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve had better. But Felix-”

Erimond slowly sits up with a pained sound. He looks at Dorian - _past_ Dorian with a bloody smile. “He’s all yours.”

Dorian turns around and Cassandra gasps.

“Daisy, no,” Varric whispers.

Calpernia strides into the torchlight, dragging Merrill behind her. She tosses Merrill at Varric’s feet and then steps aside for the towering creature half-hidden in the shadows. The orb of Arlathan glows brightly in his left hand and sings with power. Darkspawn crawl out of the shrouded corners and alleyways, armor clacking on the ground and jaws frothing and gnashing. They crowd the streets, barricading all escape routes, and Calpernia only smirks when Dorian glances at the docked ships at harbor.

“They were waiting,” Merrill rasps, barely able to lift her head. “Keeper told me to take it and run, she’ll… draw them away. I failed her, Varric. I-”

“No, you didn’t, Daisy,” Varric says. “You did your damned best. You did nothing wrong.”

He pulls Merrill to his chest when Calpernia paces around the courtyard, staff swinging in her hand. Servis hovers nearby, fearful eyes glancing between the darkspawn, the Conductor, and Calpernia.

Trevelyan spots him and starts forward. “How are you still alive, you-”

Calpernia flings Trevelyan aside and holds her staff blade to Dorian’s throat, keeping him still while Erimond pins Trevelyan to the ground with binding magic. “Erimond will do worse to him if you try anything.”

“Calpernia,” Dorian says with a tight smile and a quick glance at the Conductor’s eerily human eyes. “How did you get involved in this? Do you know who he is? What he’s capable of?”

“Of course I do. Why else would I be here?” she says. “I may have been a slave once but never a fool. Now, I want you to think very carefully about your next move. It’ll decide the fate of everyone in this city.”

“I know what happened here over a thousand years ago. All those slaves, all that blood, and what it did to the world…. Is that why you’re here? You intend to bleed the city again?”

“That was for seven magisters. He is just one, and far more powerful than he was ages ago. He doesn’t _need_ the blood of Emerius but if you fight us….”

He stares at her cold calculating eyes and then at the Conductor, who holds out a clawed hand and says, “ _Too long have I waited for this second chance. Come with me. Become the lifeblood of Tevinter’s future. Become the lifeblood of your god._ ”

“Dorian,” Felix says weakly. He pushes himself upright against the wall, dazed but aware of the Conductor’s Tevene. “Don’t. We can still fight… get you out of here.”

Something roars overhead and Dorian looks up to see a massive winged shape against the moonlight. Paxley wails, “An Archdemon? Maker save us.”

“There is no Maker, only my master,” Calpernia says. “A high dragon, blighted like the darkspawn and now his to command.” She smiles crookedly. “One wrong move, Lord Pavus, and he will unleash her might on Emerius.”

“Perhaps you could lay off with the titles. Not feeling very lordly right now,” Dorian mutter. “You’re leaving me no choice.”

“Dorian,” Trevelyan says. “You can’t.”

“I can,” he says. _You need to be safe._ “You’ll just have to find a way to stop him before he bleeds me out to destroy this world and the next.”

“ _Bind him_ ,” the Conductor says, turning away. “ _The streets are red enough. Bleed the ones here and be done with this wretched city._ ”

Dorian whirls around. “No, you said you’ll spare them if-”

Calpernia’s staff smashes into his head.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: blood. lots of blood.
> 
>  
> 
> If you read this story before and am wondering why you received a notif from it, I revised it and felt it was only fair to bump it back up the list.
> 
> If you have not read this story before, well, I revised it over half a year after first posting it.

Consciousness ebbs and flows. Dorian struggles to open his eyes but the effort tires him. It’s much easier to sink back into the dark, but when he does, he ses a lifeless city in the sky just out of reach of his fingertips. Black gates sit crookedly on their hinges and stone falls from the crumbling towers into the abyss down below.

 _“The city was empty when I flung open the gates. No god sat on the throne. No god showed me the promised salvation,”_ a voice speaks, deep and rich, vibrating all around him and sinking into his bones. _“I was deceived and denied, left to silence and suffering, but no more. Fitting that the blood I will spill, the life that will be given to usher in a new age and a new god, is that of a true Imperial.”_

When Dorian finally wakes, someone is holding a waterskin to his lips. He sputters and scrambles away only to collide with a wall. He scrubs his face until his eyes focus on Servis’s, dirt-streaked and terrified. Behind the mage are several campfires, prowling darkspawn, Calpernia, and the great silhouette of a high dragon against a stormy sky.

“Where… where are we?” Dorian rasps, eyeing the waterskin.

“Near the mountains,” Servis says. His eyes dart everywhere. “Tomorrow - in a few hours - soon, we’ll reach the pass and-”

Dorian grabs the front of Serivs’s robes and drags him forward. He tries to, anyway; his strength is sapped and he only manages to sway Servis forward a few inches. But his intention is clear and Servis’s eyes widen with panic.

“Why are you doing this?” Dorian demands. “How much did Calpernia promise you? Is it really worth what’a happening here? Is it all worth it?”

“I - I chose to walk in the shadow of a living, breathing god. He offered me wealth, power, protection. Why wouldn’t I join his cause?”

“Because he’s going to tear the Veil apart again, you idiot! He brought back the Blight the first time and it nearly destroyed us.” He searches Servis’s face for fear and doubt. “You’re afraid of what the Conductor is doing but you won’t stop him.”

“No one stands against him, or Calpernia. Not after what she did to Lord Erimond.”

Calpernia stands with her back to them, staff held loosely in her hands. She’s relaxed, at ease with the darkspawn and the great black dragon. Didn’t she call herself a slave? If so, how did she come into her wealth of knowledge and power? He doesn’t know what to make of her.

“What did she do?”

“She slit his throat, declaring it was for the Imperium, that his blood will bring power to the sigils under Emerius. Then she set the darkspawn on your friends.”

Dorian lets go of Servis’s robes and leans against the stone, breathing shakily against the hollow in his chest. “And Kirkwall?”

“It stands. But who knows what’ll happen after the Conductor claims it.”

“I’m sure you’re very proud of your contributions to our destruction,” Dorian says bitterly. He looks at his hands, dusty and cracked with bits of dried blood under the nails. He can’t feel them even when he clenches them. “You won’t consider helping me stop this madness? Not even a little?”

The pause in Servis’s answer is telling. “You can’t stop him. Nobody can. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

Servis doesn’t argue. He glances around before leaving with the waterskin, alerting Dorian to the two heavily armed hurlocks standing guard. Dorian tests the reach of his magic but the Fade slips through his fingers like water, leaving him helpless and trapped with the enemy.

There’s something in the water. Of course there is; they can’t risk Dorian causing trouble. They didn’t bind his limbs, however, so he can make a break for it, force their hand and put a permanent end to the Conductor’s plans. He never thought about dying like this - he never thought about it at all - but what else can he do?

He tries to pull his feet under him but they won’t move. Fog rolls into his mind and he blinks blurrily at the hazy figure of Calpernia walking towards him, staff glowing red, while everything goes dark.

* * *

“Haven’t seen the sun in days. That’s his doing, isn’t it? Why, afraid it’ll shine too bright a light on his evil deeds? You’d think he’d be proud of his efforts to destroy the world.”

“Keep your thoughts to yourself, Pavus,” Calpernia growls, “or I’ll do it for you.”

“Well, at least you stopped calling me ‘lord’. It’s the little things,” Dorian says and flinches when she prods him with her staff blade. “Shall I inform your master that you’re poking holes in me? I thought he wanted me unsullied for his little ritual.”

“ _Pavus_.”

He flashes her a cheeky grin and faces forward to continue his grim march up the mountain pass towards the Warden fortress. He doesn’t look at the bodies on the side, the corpses of the valiant Wardens who gave their lives in a fruitless attempt to imprison an ancient magister. The blighted dragon soars overhead, watching the parade of darkspawn and Tevinter mages snake up the Vimmark Mountains.

Calpernia keeps looking over her shoulder. The seventh time she does so, Dorian says, “Expecting company?”

“Making certain that those fool Wardens don’t attempt one last pointless charge and undo my years of research and preparations.”

“Ah, so you didn’t kill them all.”

“Don’t remind me,” she replies curtly and marches ahead.

Dorian crosses the chasm with Calpernia’s staff at his back, a surefire way to keep him from looking down into vertigo. He’s sweating and anxious by the time he reaches the other side and then he forgets his fear of falling when the Conductor descends the stairs into the fortress with the orb of Arlathan.

“I’m running out of ideas,” he mutters and jumps when Calpernia prods him forward.

Servis tries to stay behind, suggesting he can keep watch for the surviving Wardens, but Calpernia orders him into the fortress as well. He does so, face white and mouth a thin line, and Dorian sidles up to him while they continue their descent to the ritual site.

“Trying to make a break for it now? After all the time and gold you invested?”

“The darkspawn are a safer bet than this,” the mage says lowly. “Do you think I’m a necessary part of his ritual?”

“Well, you’re the only other one,” Dorian begins and then realizes what Servis is implying. 

The Conductor would certainly keep Calpernia around but what use does the magister have with Servis? He’ll sell out anyone for the right amount of sovereigns. But if Dorian knows anything about magisters in Ancient Tevinter, it’s that they never waste a life.

“A pity you didn’t do the right thing.”

“What, you think your friends did? If you forgot, they _died_ -”

He shoves Servis against the wall, fury burning hotly in his chest, in his hands. He grabs the mage by the collar and snaps, “At least they tried to save us!”

Hurlocks pry him off of Servis. He wrests himself away from their blighted hands, brushes his dusty robes clean, and glares at Servis and Calpernia before continuing down the hall. He clings to the anger, begging it to continue drowning out his grief for his friends and to keep his mind sharp. No one poured laced water down his throat today, meaning he has a chance, however slim, of stopping the Conductor.

Near the bottom of the fortress, Dorian hears faint scuffling noises echoing down from the upper levels, followed by yelling and the sounds of metal cutting flesh. He raises an eyebrow at Calpernia and opens his mouth for a tart remark about unruly darkspawn, and then he hears someone shouting his name.

Trevelyan is _alive_ and _here_.

Dorian’s first move is to create a telekinetic wave that throws Calpernia and Servis off their feet. His next is to incinerate the hurlocks blocking his way with a fireball and-

“ _Enough._ ”

The fire dies at his fingertips. Unwelcome magic surges through him and pulls him around to face the Conductor. How is the magister controlling him? He looks at the glowing orb in the Conductor’s hand and remembers his blood staining its whorled surface.

“ _Deal with the threat. No one is to interrupt the ritual. You,_ ” and he points a long finger at Servis’s terrified face, “ _will come with me._ ” The finger then moves to Dorian. “ _As for you-_ ”

Dorian wakes on a cold stone slab, arms and legs outstretched and pinned down with blood magic. He blinks blearily at the cracked high ceiling and then at the veilfire torches lighting a large chamber and filling the cold stale air with the faint hum of the Fade. He raises his head to see deep grooves crossing the floor, all converging on a single point just out of his line of sight.

The Conductor stands nearby, admiring the sacrificial dagger Dorian found days earlier. The veilfire light glints off its wet edge and his heart sinks. _What did you do to Servis?_

“ _This was once mine_ ,” the Conductor says.

“You don’t say.”

“ _I cut the throat of the first sacrifice in this chamber, before taking the knife to my hand and calling out to Dumat. The others followed suit. Seven magisters and seven sacrifices for seven gods, and the vast pool of power held in the depths of Emerius to open the door. We summoned the key and commanded it to bring us to the Fade. But the city was already blackened and empty. The Old Ones lied to us. Tricked us. They laughed as we left, burned by their magic, lost and in pain. But no more. I will claim the throne and command the Fade. The world will bow to me. Then I will find the Old Ones. I will cut out Dumat’s heart myself._ ”

“Last I checked, the Wardens took care of that problem,” Dorian remarks because if he’s going to die, he won’t do so quietly.

The Conductor actually laughs and it isn’t pleasant to hear. “ _When I am done, they will only be an afterthought. Forgotten. I will be the one the world remembers.”_ His head jerks towards the chamber’s shut doors and his eyes narrow. “ _She will not fail me._ ”

Dorian tilts his head and picks up the faintest sound of battle. His heart leaps; Trevelyan made it to the bowels of the fortress. How did he do it by himself - the ground rocks ever so slightly and pieces of the ceiling shake loose, raining dust on him. The corner of Dorian’s mouth twitches upward because he knows Felix’s faint aura anywhere.

“Your people are having trouble. Maybe you should step outside and make sure they can hold their own against a sword-wielding southerner and an altus.”

The Conductor gives him a withering look. “ _I waited a thousand years for this moment. Nothing will stop me now. Hope that they have the sense to beg for mercy when I return a living god.”_

Dorian looks at the doors again, noticing for the first time the magic sealing them. It’s corrosive and powerful, and he knows Felix is incapable of using blood magic to counter the Conductor’s enchantment.

“ _Now is the hour_ ,” the Conductor says. He tears away the leather straps and sleeve on Dorian’s right arm, and positions the bloodied dagger over the inside of his wrist. The ancient magister holds up the orb of Arlathan and the air in the chamber vibrates with power. “ _The Fade will be mine and soon the world will remember my name. They will know the will of-_ ”

Something slams against the doors. The Conductor flinches but he still slices Dorian’s wrist open. Dorian hisses in pain and tries to wrench his arm away; nothing moves and he stares at the warm blood running down his wrist to the floor, presumably to mix in with what’s left of Servis’s. The air in the chamber thickens with magic and he coughs when it prickles the back of his throat.

“ _At last_ ,” the Conductor says, dropping the dagger, and turns his attention to the orb.

He gestures at it and Dorian _sees_ its magic radiate, spreading out like ripples in the water and crashing into the Veil. The torches shriek as the orb tears into the Fade, creating a jagged green breach in the air. The Conductor gestures again to make it grow; the breach spreads in increments, fueled by the orb and Dorian’s blood. He gasps harshly as the orb steadily saps his strength, reaching through the deep wound in his veins to drain him dry.

The doors burst open. The Conductor whirls around and lurches when a dagger buries into the right side of his chest. He tries to pull it out but instead blocks Felix’s fireball. Felix pushes the Conductor back with a wild storm of spells, the staff in his hand a hypnotizing blur and his magic crackling dangerously so close to the doorway into the Fade. Trevelyan runs to Dorian’s side, looking utterly disheveled and bloodied and glorious.

“Dorian,” he breathes, relieved, cupping Dorian’s face with an unsteady hand. Then he sees the bleeding wrist and his face hardens. “Need to get you out of here.”

“Love to but can’t. Blood magic. Also, he just breached the Fade. Get that orb away from him before he makes everything worse.”

“Let me,” and Merrill shoves Trevelyan aside. She’s covered in blood and dirt, and holding a small hunting dagger dripping red. “Wrap his wrist before the orb bleeds him out. Oh. Dorian. I should probably tell you that I use blood magic.”

“Frankly, I don’t care as long as you don’t use it on me,” Dorian says, looking at the wide open doors and shivering at the thought that Merrill must be very powerful to break the Conductor’s spell.

Merrill waves her hands over him, wincing apologetically when her dagger comes dangerously close to his face. The Conductor’s hold on him loosens and that gets the darkspawn magister’s attention.

“ _You will not stop me!_ ” the Conductor bellows. He sends Felix flying across the chamber and hexes Merrill with horror, sending her crashing to her knees. “ _And you!_ ”

Trevelyan darts around the Conductor’s next spell and charges, using his momentum to bring his greatsword down on the Conductor’s left shoulder. The blade glances off the Conductor’s barrier and he staggers back, then throws himself out of the way of an eye-searing wall of fire. The Conductor bombards Trevelyan with magic, face twisted in fury. Dorian wrestles with the magic pinning him down but can’t break it.

“Merrill,” he says. “Merrill, can you - are you-”

She scrubs her face, smearing damp dirt and tears everywhere. “She disapproves, she always disapproves, but she’ll understand. We have to stop him. We have to - yes, I’ll do it. Hold on, Dorian.”

She hauls herself up and slices her left hand open. Seconds later, the Conductor’s magic withers away. Dorian tries to sit up but his right arm buckles and the room sways. Merrill shields them both with a barrier before running to Felix’s side. Dorian takes a deep breath and then lashes out at the Conductor with a lightning bolt, knocking the orb out of the ancient magister’s hand. The Conductor lunges for it but Dorian strikes him again and he falls.

“Grab it!” Dorian yells.

“Wait, don’t-” Merrill starts.

Trevelyan throws himself at the rolling orb and sweeps it off the ground with his left hand. He promptly collapses, crying out as the orb’s magic wraps around his hand and arm. Horrified, Dorian slides off the stone slab and staggers to the Marcher’s side. Merrill stops him from taking the orb away.

“You’re bleeding,” she says tersely, wrapping long fingers around his slippery wrist. “Imagine what’ll happen if you touch it.”

The orb is already reaching for the life dripping from his arm but he doesn’t care. It’s doing _something_ to Trevelyan and Dorian has to stop it. “Close the breach. It’s the only way. But he’s not a mage.”

Merrill kneels next to Trevelyan’s hunched body. “You have to will it to close the Veil tear. If you don’t, it’ll grow and kill Dorian. It’ll consume the world.”

“I can help,” Felix says shakily, joining them. Tiny cuts mark his face and there’s a gouge on his chin that Dorian knows will scar. The staff in his bruised hands looks like Calpernia’s. “Can’t purge its connection entirely but I can weaken its effects for a few seconds. Can you do it?”

Trevelyan nods, jaw clenched tightly, and slowly stands. The orb’s magic creeps up his arm, an entrancing and horrifying sight. He waves off Merrill and slowly raises his left hand towards the green glowing Veil tear.

“Now, Felix,” he says hoarsely.

Felix dispels all magic within the chamber, snuffing out the veilfire torches and leaving Dorian aching and disoriented from the loss. The orb still glows brightly with blood magic but it no longer has control of Trevelyan, who holds it out to the breach.

“Will it to close,” Merrill says firmly.

“ _You will not!_ ” 

And the Conductor storms out of the dark, hand dripping black blood. A telekinetic blast throws Felix out of the chamber and Merrill into the stone slab with a sickening crack. The chamber shudders violently and pieces of the ceiling fall from above. Dorian picks himself up to see the Conductor looming over Trevelyan, a clawed hand closing on the orb in the Marcher’s grasp. “ _You will not take what is rightfully mine-_ ”

“Get away from him, you filth!” Dorian snaps, lightning crackling at his bloodied fingertips.

The first volley sends the Conductor reeling. The second knocks him into the breach. For all that he said about entering the city in the Fade as its new god, the Conductor tries to claw his way back out. Someone - Felix - pummels him with a focused telekinetic blast and he vanishes through the Veil tear. Trevelyan steps up next to Dorian and holds out the orb; its magic crashes into the breach, gripping the crackling edges, and forces it shut. The resulting explosion throws Dorian off his feet and knocks the air out of his lungs. The ceiling crumbles further, pelting him and the others with debris.

“Is it over?” Merrill asks weakly in the dark.

“I… I believe so,” he replies breathlessly. He sits up only to curl into himself as his head swims and nausea rises up his throat. He swallows back the bile and calls out for Trevelyan.

“Right here,” the Marcher replies, exhausted and pained. “The orb… Merrill, it’s broken. I’m sorry.”

“What? Creators, no.” She lights veilfire in her hand and scrambles over rubble to Trevelyan, who holds out a piece of the orb. “The feedback must’ve - the power required to close the breach, it must’ve been too much for the orb. But at least you still have a part of - your hand!”

Dorian crawls over to see Merril holding Trevelyan’s left arm to the veilfire. Blackened lines crisscross his bare and bloodied hand, and crawl up his wrist to disappear under his dented vambrace. The fingers curl uselessly and Trevelyan won’t look at them.

“Don’t suppose you’re also a healer, Merrill?” Dorian asks, trying for a lighter tone and sounding terrified instead. His heart sinks when she shakes her head. “Does it hurt?”

“I can’t feel anything,” Trevelyan says hollowly.

Something crashes in the distance and the ground shudders. Felix staggers over to them, Calpernia’s staff casting a dull red light. “We need to go.”

Dorian nods, swallowing hard against a parched throat, and tries to stand. He wobbles and sits back down while the ground roils like the sea. Blood is still spilling out of the deep cut in his wrist; shouldn’t it have stopped bleeding by now? “Something’s not right.”

“Use this.” Trevelyan tugs his stained sash loose from under his belt and hands it to Merrill. He holds his crippled hand to his chest and watches Merrill bind Dorian’s wrist tightly, ignoring Felix’s horrified stare.

Something else crashes, shaking the ground underneath and the fortress above, and they waste no more time. Dorian looks down at Servis’s body while hurrying out of the chamber with the others; a long red line cuts across the mage’s neck and his blank eyes stare into the void, wide with horror at what transpired.

* * *

“Varric knows Kirkwall better than anyone,” Merrill explains while they weave around debris and collapsed walls. “Warden-Commander Clarel held the darkspawn back long enough for us to escape through one of the smuggler tunnels. She - she died. She was so brave.”

“We never would’ve gotten here in time if not for her,” Felix says.

“It was close,” Dorian says. “But how did you get here so quickly? The Conductor - what happened to that blighted dragon?”

“You’ll see,” Felix says cryptically.

Trevelyan is quiet but when Dorian falls back to his side, the Marcher flashes him a tired smile. “You’re okay.”

“Thanks to you.” Dorian glances at his blackened hand. “Will you be all right?”

Trevelyan hesitates. “Can’t move my fingers but it… I feel something. Do you know why it happened? Why it… latched onto me like that?”

“I’m afraid not. There’s so little written about Arlathan and never anything specific about their magic. My guess is that you’re not a mage and therefore unable to control it. The Conductor used it before but magic that powerful… who knows how much control he really had.” Dorian thinks about the piece of the orb Merrill now carries, a broken relic of her people. How cruel it must’ve been watching an ancient magister use it in a bid for ultimate power. “A pity closing the breach destroyed it.”

Darkspawn bodies litter the top floor and the stairs out of the fortress. A massive black dragon drapes over the fortifications on the other side of the chasm, an ominous shape under the overcast sky. Varric and Cassandra stand near the its open maw, arguing loudly, while Stroud torches a pile of darkspawn corpses. A pyre for the Wardens burns fiercely nearby, broken armor and weapons placed reverently all around it. Off to the side is the young Warden Hawke, Carver, bruised and bandaged, tending to-

“Griffons,” Dorian says faintly, stopping to stare at the Wardens’ fabled mounts and symbols. They returned to the world of the living a hundred years ago but they are still the rarest of sights. “You came here on griffons.”

 _“We flew here,”_ Clarel had said. She was telling the truth after all.

Merrill nods emphatically, green eyes shining. “Their feathers are so soft and their wings are so _huge_ and they’re so kind and smart, like halla.”

“Should’ve seen them in battle,” Felix says. “Of all the things to happen in the past week, this was the most incredible.”

Unsurprisingly, Carver spots them first and shouts Merrill’s name. Varric and Cassandra immediately stop arguing and run over, relieved. Then Cassandra sees Trevelyan’s hand and her eyes widen.

“Maker! Are you hurt? What happened?”

“We beat him,” Trevelyan says, shaking his head when she reaches for it. “Dorian and Felix sent him into the Fade and I closed the breach he created. The Conductor is never coming back.”

“You’ve done the Wardens the greatest service,” Stroud says. Dried darkspawn blood flake off his skin as he talks. He looks like he took a tumble down the mountainside and yet his mustache remains impeccable. Dorian is irrationally jealous. “Thank you, all of you.”

“What are you going to do now?” Varric asks.

“Send word to Weisshaupt about what happened here. They need to learn about the Conductor… and Clarel.”

“This won’t involve you marching me there to explain myself, will it?” Dorian asks.

Stroud shakes his head. “I think you’ve been through enough. And you did what we Wardens couldn’t. The First Warden will understand.”

“I need to find my clan,” Merrill says, wringing her hands. “I’m the Keeper now. Creators, I don’t know how to tell them. I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“I can take you to them,” Carver offers. One of the griffons pads up to him, nuzzling his bruised cheek with its large curved bloodstained beak. Dorian stares until the griffon returns it with a sharp golden eye. “I won’t be gone more than a few hours, Stroud.”

“Better to meet me elsewhere,” Stroud says with a knowing look. He whistles and the other griffons walk over, wicked claws clacking on the ground. “Hope you don’t mind flying, Tevinter. It’s the fastest way back to the city.”

“Did nobody inform him of my intense dislike of heights?” Dorian mutters and Felix laughs loudly. “Thank you.”

“it’s not all bad,” Trevelyan says. His right hand is buried in a griffon’s feathery ruff and the creature croons while he scratches its neck. “Stroud says they will never let you fall. Just don’t look down.”

While the Wardens harness the griffons and finish whatever business they still have here, Dorian walks to the edge of the chasm and stares at the fortress on the other side. The stone griffons and dwarven warriors stare back, unmoved and unshaken by what transpired within the fortress. He wonders what they witnessed in the past thousand years. He wonders which Wardens and dwarves thought to build the prison here, on top of the ritual site and the birthplace of the Blight.

No wonder that Kirkwall, formerly Emerius, was plagued with such a strange and bloody history.

Trevelyan joins him. “Sorry you didn’t get a chance to study that site. You said your livelihood depended on it, didn’t you?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I may never be able to present definitive proof to the Magisterium but I survived it and that’s enough for me. It could have gone differently-” and he glances at Trevelyan’s left hand and the bloodstained fabric around his right wrist “-or not at all, but all things considering, I think this venture turned out well. After all, you’re alive and I’m alive.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Trevelyan muses. “Oh. I tripped over this. Pretty sure it’s yours.”

Dorian watches curiously while Trevelyan pulls out something from inside his leather coat. He stares at the dusty leather journal Trevelyan holds out to him and takes it with trembling hands and a thudding heart. He opens it, soaking in his years of notes and not quite believing that he hasn’t lost it forever. 

He looks up at Trevelyan, at his smile now drenched by the sunlight shining through the dissipating stormclouds. “Thank you.”

They’re out in the open and the others could be watching - the statues on the other side of the chasm are definitely watching - but nothing is going to stop him from kissing the Marcher. He slides his hand along the side of Trevelyan’s grimy face and draws him in, losing himself in the man’s bright gray eyes and then in the kiss.

The word slips out without a second thought, murmured against Trevelyan’s mouth. “ _Amatus._ Thank you.”

He expects Trevelyan to ask what it means but the intent behind the old Tevene word carries across regardless; Trevelyan looks at him, surprised, and then smiles brilliantly, flushing red against golden skin.

Elsewhere, Cassandra groans and Varric calls out, “Hey lovebirds, time to go!” A griffon trills. “No, not you.”

Trevelyan laughs and returns the kiss before pulling away to claim a griffon. Dorian follows at a slower pace while securing his journal, warily eyeing the creature. Trevelyan climbs into the saddle in a fluid motion, unbothered by the choice of mount and his left arm, and says, “Remember, don’t look down.”

Those four words loop in Dorian’s head as he climbs onto the griffon’s back behind the Marcher. The griffon shifts as she takes on new weight and Dorian clings to Trevelyan, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Trevelyan huffs a laugh, the blighter, and leans back against him, eliciting an entirely different reaction. He forgets what’s about to happen until after the griffon leaps into the air.

He looks down once. They’re circling high above the Warden fortress, waiting for the others to take flight, and Dorian spares a glance. Vertigo doesn’t hit immediately and he allows himself to drink in the sight of the Vimmark Mountains from an entirely different vantage point. It’s a breathtaking vista, especially with the dark clouds rolling back to let in the sun, and Dorian stares until a sudden gust unbalances the griffon.

After that, he keeps his face buried in Trevelyan’s back, breathing in leather and earth, until they reach Kirkwall.

* * *

* * *

“... and then Father ran into the courtyard to see why everyone was screaming. I’ve never seen him look so torn between shouting at us for setting half the courtyard on fire and asking Dorian exactly how he created the time bubble.”

“What did he do?” Bethany asks, a wide smiled plastered on her face while glancing between Felix and Dorian.

“I showed him how I manipulated the Fade to isolate portions of the physical world and hasten time within it. In return, I replanted all the flowerbeds, bushes, and trees,” Dorian says while pushing his empty pint around the Hanged Man’s sticky table. “Then had to plant them _again_ when they all died a month later.”

“He’s only good for handling books and artifacts,” Felix says. “Anything that was never alive to begin with.”

He laughs when Dorian kicks him under the table. The young mage Hawke smothers hers into the crook of her arm, face bright red from mirth and drink.

The Hanged Man is crowded tonight. Corff shuffles nonstop between serving drinks and fetching bowls of suspicious stew from the tavern’s poor excuse of a kitchen. Half the tables are occupied with drink and the other half with intense games of Diamondback and Wicked Grace. Captain Isabela of the Siren’s Call III is raking in everyone's coin at one table while the Iron Bull and his Chargers hog the ones in the back, drinking away their earnings form their latest job while cursing each other out over Dead Man’s Tricks.

The tavern was one of the first buildings to be repaired after the darkspawn invasion. Varric funded the project since he lives there and half of Lowtown pitched in to restore their beloved watering hole. Dorian tried to help but his connection to the Fade is tenuous and the effort drained him after just one hour of helping set stone for the Hanged Man’s new foundation. Neither the mages in Kirkwall nor Merrill could explain what the Conductor’s ritual and the orb’s blood-fueled magic had done to him and he didn’t dare reach out to Alexius for help. No one in Minrathous needs to know what befell House Pavus’s talented and wayward son.

It doesn’t bother him anymore. His magic isn’t completely gone and he has the archive to devote his time and talents to.

“Andraste’s flaming sword,” Varric grumbles, joining their table. Norah the barmaid follows him with a tray of drinks. “Swimming up to my eyeballs in paperwork. Someone start a fight and set my desk on fire. Need an excuse for why I don’t have them at the next meeting.”

“Hasn’t the Hanged Man suffered enough?” Bethany asks while helping Norah pass the ales around. She leans against Felix while taking a sip and Dorian resists prodding him over the rising flush on his face.

“I can pay for it,” Varric says dismissively and procures a deck of cards. “So. Who’s up for some Wicked Grace?”

After four rounds and four lost sovereigns, Dorian excuses himself for the night. He gives Felix a knowing look and waves to the Iron Bull before stepping out. He looks up at the moons, the scaffolding still covering most of the city, the faded bloodstains on the ground and the vigorously whitewashed walls, and the people loitering under the lamps and torches. He sighs, rubs the faded silk wrapped around his wrist, and makes his way up to Hightown. He passes a patrol led by Guard Captain Aveline, who nods at him, and stops in front of the research outpost. He considers the new and substantially more ostentatious sign hanging from the building, a gift from the Magisterium, before opening the door.

Maevaris is in the main hall, staring at a broken crate at her feet. He’s quite certain it’s one of several from the Frostback Basin, where whispers about the whereabouts of the last Inquisitor’s resting place grow louder and louder. The magister doesn’t look up when he shuts the door.

“Those broken things cannot be more interesting than me,” he says. 

“You may need to petition Kinloch Hold,” she says instead and smirks when he groans at the thought of writing another painstakingly polite letter to the college’s first enchanter. “They have the most extensive collection of writings on the Avvar. Also, a courier named Charter dropped off a package for you an hour ago. I left it in your room.”

“A package, you say?” He frowns at the suspiciously sly smile on her face.

“Go on. I’ll deal with this. Maybe I’ll visit the harbormaster early tomorrow morning and have a ‘talk’ about his handling of our shipments.”

“Just don’t turn him into a toad,” Dorian says and goes upstairs.

The veilfire lamp casts an eerie green glow on his messy room and he lights the candle on his bedside table to counter it. He picks his way around the towers of old books and past shelves now lined with relics from Ancient, gifts from the Wardens’ caches for his role in helping them solve their darkspawn magister problem. 

He spots the package on his desk and the sealed letter accompanying it. The package is wrapped in a silk brocade not unlike the one Trevelyan used to wear around his waist. Heart beating just a bit faster, he picks up the letter and turns it over to stare at a familiar family seal, then peels off the wax and unfolds it to read.

 

_Dorian_

_I’m visiting family and writing this while hiding in the servants’ kitchen. I forgot my niece was celebrating her hundredth day, a day we Ostwickians consider to be important. Also forgot my brother and his wife were expecting in the first place. Evelyn laughed at me for a solid minute when I confessed but I did have an excuse. Cassandra is upstairs distracting everyone. No one expected the Right Hand of the Divine to accompany me and are falling all over themselves to gain her favor. You can imagine how she feels about it._

_Yesterday I hit my target from a hundred paces. Didn’t take as long to steady the bow. Never felt so good proving the healers wrong. I still need to come up with an excuse for why I keep my hand covered all the time. Can’t exactly explain what happened without causing panic and angering the Wardens. And the Most Holy. And Cassandra._

_Thought I should warn you that Divine Justinia expressed an interest in meeting you to talk about what happened in the mountains. That’s one of the reasons why we’re coming to Kirkwall within the month, but mostly I miss you. Five months is long enough. Whatever answer you give, Cassandra will take it with her back to Val Royeaux but I plan to stay a while._

_M. Trevelyan_

_Charter - if you’re reading this, ignore what Sister Nightingale told you and take this to Hightown immediately. I mean it._

 

Dorian can’t stop smiling while folding the letter and adding it to the small stack on his desk. The first letter came by raven while Trevelyan and the others were passing through Emprise du Lion, a few choice sentences complaining about the heavy snowfall and Mistress Poulin of Sahrnia, and the glossy black bird refused to leave until Dorian penned a short response and tied it to the raven’s leg. Their correspondence became a lifeline and an affirmation, and on some of the lonelier nights he’d read them all and wonder if he should go find the Marcher instead.

He considers writing a letter now but Trevelyan and Cassandra are probably already on the road. Instead, he turns his attention to the package and picks apart the knot. The corners of the sash, a beautiful deep blue and royal sea silk fabric patterned with waves and mountains, fall away to reveal a lacquered box not much larger than the one Dorian brought with him from Qarinus. Engraved on the lid is a rearing horse against the Chantry sunburst, the House Trevelyan heraldry.

Dorian opens the box and stares at the Pavus birthright nestled in dark velvet. He traces the intertwined golden snake heads and every precious gem embedded in the amulet with a trembling finger, and then notices the folded paper underneath it.

 

_his name is ponchard de lieux. found him in starkhaven. gave it up as soon as i swung my family name and benefactor around. you were right. his name really is pretentiously orlesian._

 

He laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several months later and I still can't believe I wrote a Dragon Age Mummy AU.
> 
> *strums guitar and screams*


End file.
